The Last Watch of Hero
by yesterdayschild4
Summary: Dean Winchester is going to die in five months, and it's a terribly unlucky time to really get to know him. However, if it weren't for bad luck, Bela Talbot would have no luck at all...
1. Chapter 1

**The Last Watch of Hero**

Bela never saw Dean's announcement coming.

They'd been here before, of course. Many times, in fact, since that encounter over the rabbit's foot. Guns drawn, eyes blazing down the barrel, and two mouths set stubbornly. It was almost getting to be routine, this cat and mouse game of _whose object is it anyway_; Bela was beginning to think of each encounter rather like a play: Dean said his lines, she said hers, and the ending was almost always predictable. She knew perfectly well that she could give him whatever he wanted, and simply pick his pocket a day later. He was getting wise to her tricks—how could he not be; Dean Winchester was not slow—but he was still a fool for batting eyelashes and subtle—or not so subtle—flirting. And cleavage. Dean Winchester was the world's biggest fool for cleavage.

Adjusting her aim a little, Bela cast the object in question a cursory glance. It was laying harmlessly on her countertop, closer to her than to Dean, but she had a feeling he could reach it if he wanted to. Thought that maybe he was enjoying himself a little, using his big scary soldier voice and waving his gun all willy-nilly in her direction. This time it was a mirror, used innocently enough for love spells once upon a time before a man named Thomas Black had used it to trap his lovers' souls back in the seventeenth century. Soul suckers were always popular items on the market; Bela didn't care enough to ask Dean whose soul it had sucked this time.

"Did you ever think that perhaps it serves these people _right_?" Bela began, simply because it had been awhile since either of them had spoken and silent glaring was getting a tad boring, truth be told. "Who honestly casts love spells anyway? Have a little patience! And is a love spell _really_ even all that different than the date rape drug? I ask you that, Dean. Coercion is coercion."

"Oh, taking the moral high road," scoffed Dean, enunciating _moral high road_ with a slight bobbing of his weapon. "And you've _never_ cast one? No lonely teenaged Bela sitting all alone in her bedroom mixing herbs and saying, 'Oh, why won't Johnny love me?' I bet you cried a little. You so did. Johnny lover."

"Oh please. _I_ have never had any trouble at all getting someone to like me; you on the other hand… you seem to know what you're talking about. A little personal experience here, Dean? You can tell me." A pause. "And next time, could you just knock? Circumventing my security system got a little old a few months ago."

Dean shrugged. "You could always get a better one. Be a bit more of a challenge. You know, keep things exciting." He sniggered at her, down the barrel of his gun. "Unless you want me breaking in."

Bela rolled her eyes, and lowered her gun minutely. Dean noticed, he had to have, but then he was using his to enunciate points, so it was hardly like they were serious about killing each other, anyway. She watched him gaze surreptitiously around her flat; thought he might have been trying hard to feel comfortable in a place that wasn't some cheap motel that charged by the hour. It struck her as funny that he might be trying; then, they were sort of friends-disguised-as-enemies-disguised-as-friends, and they had come across each other enough in the past three months. She could own to a momentary relief that she'd done her dishes before he'd come barging in, guns drawn.

Either way. The set of his shoulders seemed unusually rigid and, now that she was really staring at him with something more than halfhearted murder on her mind, she saw that his eyes were lined with purple smudges, not to mention that he was sporting more of a five o'clock shadow than she had ever seen on him. In fact, now that she was looking past the gun and the jacket and the bravado, Dean really did look quite terrible.

"Have you not been sleeping?" she asked, pleased when her concern sounded superficial and petty. "If it's so important to you, I'll sell it to you for seventy five grand. How do you like that? Real steal of a deal. I could get double that elsewhere."

"Seventy five grand," he echoed dumbly, in that tone that people who weren't used to any money whatsoever often used. Like seventy five grand was inconceivable; like seventy five _dollars_ was inconceivable. "Excuse me a minute. I forgot my friggin' briefcase full of money down in my car."

She was delighted when his eye twitched.

After a moment, she said, "It's not even a very nice mirror, is it?"

Dean sent it a speculative glance, down his nose. "Oh, I don't know… a little polish here, little shine there…" He seemed to catch himself and snapped his gaze back to her, eyes full of fire. "Just give me the damned mirror, Bela. I'm not going to ask you again."

"Oh, scary!" She pretended to shiver. "I'm quaking in my boots, Dean. Really, I am. Why do you even want it so bad?" Alright, she wanted to know, but it was only curiosity, not because she really _cared_. "What part is it that bothers you? The person's soul it sucked or the very principle of soul sucking? Hmm? Which one don't you want to dirty your hands with?"

Dean glowered at her; absolutely glared the fires of hell in her direction. If she was someone else, she might have taken a step back. As it was, she raised her gun again; his tone was flippant despite his expression when he answered.

"You get soul sucked and see how _you_ like it," was what he said. And then, as an afterthought, "If you even have one."

Bela rolled her eyes and wished she wasn't holding her gun so that she could cross her arms. "I would never get my soul sucked or sold or anything of the matter, thanks ever so. I do have _some_ intelligence. I mean, what kind of idiot even winds up in that situation? Who falls for the gaze-into-this-mirror-ooo trick? Even worse to summon up a demon. No tricking there. That's just plain stupidity!"

Something flickered across Dean's face, a minute not-quite expression gone so fast that she couldn't quite say what it had been; it caught her all the same. He was still glowering—seemed to be glowering even harder now—and she noticed his gun was right back up as well. His knuckles had whitened from the firmness of his grip and—

"Oh my God." She lowered her gun to the counter. Gaped at him. "Oh my God."

Dean glared at her. Snapped his head once hard to the side and lowered his own gun; looked like throttling her was more the way to go.

"God has very little to do with it, sweetheart," he informed her, a touch patronizingly. "Give me the mirror."

She'd put her gun down; picked up the mirror now and skirted backwards. Remembered just barely not to look into the shiny surface.

"You didn't say please." A pause. "Is this a ploy to get the mirror? Feel sorry for your damned self? Let it go for less? For _free_?" She grimaced at the thought, voice pitching.

"Nice to know that money means more to you than my eternal damnation," harrumphed Dean, whose posture clearly stated his urge to flee. The whiteness of his knuckles seemed to be spreading up his hand, and he looked more uncomfortable than she had ever seen him.

Bela, who had never been any good at processing big news just like that, managed, "How long do you have?"

A shrug, like they were talking about the possibility of rain. "Six months left, give or take a few days." Like he did not know the exact number of days.

"Oh." _Oh_. She gaped at him more, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that this vibrant pain in her ass was going to die—was going to _Hell_--and failed miserably. And she was Bela Talbot. She was a bitch, and a mercenary bitch at that; so she fell back on it. Leaned forward onto her elbows, the countertop cool through her blouse, and smiled impishly at him. "Does that add desperation to this bargain, Dean? Think I could jack the price?"

"Jack the…?"

"You have six months left, Dean. Let's hurry this along. I'll barter. What will you give me for the mirror?"

He seemed to relax a little; the Hell conversation had caught him off guard. This was the way he'd planned their little get together ending up—negotiating he could handle; the rest felt like verbal foreplay gone wrong. Dean smirked at her; even went so far as putting his gun away. Bela tightened her grip on the handle of the mirror when he meandered over, and she didn't trust the lazy glint in his eyes.

"Do you know what, Bela?" he asked, when he was close enough that he could lower his voice and speak softly. "I'll probably spend all eternity locked up in a room with some version of you. Because _that_ would be Hell for me."

Bela looked down her nose at him. "I hope they make you listen to the Spice Girls on repeat."

_Hell_, she thought, and couldn't get past it.

* * *

It bothered Bela on more than one level, once Dean was gone and she could think without piercing green eyes and subtle mockery. It bothered her a lot more once she did some snooping around and realized why—Sam had died and Dean had sold his soul so that his brother could live. She couldn't necessarily understand why he had done it—Bela was not that close to anyone, and couldn't imagine a connection that would make her want to sacrifice herself for all eternity; she had trouble enough giving her acquaintances a break when it came to money, for God's sake—but she could recognize a heartbreaking poignancy to it all, except that poignancy didn't even begin to cover it. Bela was an only child, and couldn't really understand that either, but she tried, alone in her flat with her cat, to really _imagine_ it.

"I can't live without you," she said to her cat, teacup warm between her palms. "I would rather an eternity of hellfire than one day without you."

It made her laugh uncomfortably.

It bothered her more that Dean was going to die. She did not know the brother Winchesters well—or at all really, past some accidental run-ins—but what she did know, she at the very least respected. She enjoyed flirting with Dean; liked passing the time with easy back and forths when she was with him. Everything she had ever heard about him bragged his ability as a hunter; she had no reason to doubt that he was not a good man.

All that aside, and he was a _young_ man. He'd be dead before it was natural, taken at his physical prime. She thought of running into Sam without Dean, thought about the natural vibrancy he exuded, and had to swallow her tea hard to get it past the lump in her throat. _Dead_. So final. Such a waste.

"Dean Winchester is going to die soon," she informed her cat next, trying to keep her voice level. Bela thrived on repressed emotions; she was going to repress this too.

The Hell thing escaped her entirely. She believed in it, of course. Knew all about Dante's Inferno, and never-ending torture. _She_ wanted to shoot Dean from time to time; the thought of him eternally plagued by _pain_ was something else entirely. She couldn't do it. Couldn't process that one. The idea of it seemed abstract and fundamentally _wrong_. She could say it out loud and did—"Dean Winchester is going to Hell"—but it had no meaning to her. It fell under the category of things too big to go into; things better off ignored.

She wondered how Sam could stand being around him at all. Bela was sure she'd never be able to look at him again, now that she knew, without seeing Death hovering in his shadow. It gave everything Dean did an odd finality, an unnatural desperation, and she couldn't imagine having to witness it and pretend—

Bela did not know Dean Winchester well, but what she knew she liked, no matter how much he got on her nerves. It didn't seem fair. It wasn't the right order of things. He was supposed to go on being his charming self, not end up in Hell before his next birthday.

It was all too big, and because of that, it did not make her cry.

Later on, she consulted her board; figured it was the least she could do. She asked a variety of spirits for their help, for their advice. How could Dean break free? It was all she wanted to know. Deals were made to be broken—or was that rules? She wondered if she could communicate with Dean when he was in Hell. Keep him updated on the goings on topside. The idea made her giggle, high pitched and hysterical.

The spirits were no help. The message they sent was all the same--_Dean for Sam, Sam for Dean_. That was fucked up too, the choice between brothers, and Bela gave up after awhile, cranky and subdued.

Dean Winchester was going to die. Dean Winchester was going to Hell.

But that was not for months, and she resolved not to think about it until then. There were things that needed doing in _her_ life—she had heard about an amulet holed up somewhere in Indiana under the protection of another notorious hunter, and she needed to put together a team to retrieve it for her. Had prospective buyers waiting on what she already had. There were appointments to arrange, pickups to organize, and sitting around moping about the death of someone she didn't even know—not really—seemed like a waste of time. Practicality helped with repression, and Bela was fans of both.

Dean Winchester was going to die, but Bela Talbot was very much alive, and there was, after all, money to be made; work to do.

* * *

Bela did not see either one of them again for over a month—under five months left; under five months and some random days, and then _nothing_. She had not planned on seeing them—never really _planned_ on it—but the shrilling of her cell phone near her pillow woke her at 2:30 in the morning. The caller ID said Dean Winchester.

"What do you want?" she croaked by way of a greeting, groping for the lamp on her bedside table. The sudden light blinded her, and she fell back into her pillow, squinting and grumpy. On the end of her bed, the cat rose and walked in a circle three times, glaring at her disdainfully for the interruption.

There were some noises Bela couldn't identify on Dean's end of the call that sounded suspiciously like grunting, and then, "Buzz me in."

"What? Can't you just get around the system like you always do? I'm sleeping." She rubbed the heel of her hand hard into her eyes and grimaced. Had a sudden intelligent thought. "And anyway, don't come up at all. It's nearly three in the morning, Dean. Go away."

She hung up on him and chucked her phone for good measure. She ignored the first call back, and the second. The third was just plain aggravating. And why had she thrown it? Cursing herself and him, she heaved her upper half over the side of her bed and groped around her floor as far as she could reach. Gave up and got up, just as the phone began its fourth go around. Her flat was cold, her bed was not, and she was going to kill him for real this time. Under five months was rapidly becoming under five minutes and—oh Lord, what a horrible thought.

"What?" Bela growled, staggering into her slippers. Her robe was hanging in her closet; she jerked it on with angry motions over top of her pajamas. "I swear to God, this had better be good."

"Hello, you've reached Bela Talbot," Dean singsonged, voice high and grating over his attempt at an English accent. Then, tone changing, he added, "Don't hang up on me, you mannerless impolite…"

Someone else said something indecipherable in the background. Just when Bela was about to let him have it quite genuinely, he deigned to include, "Sam's been shot—"

"What else is new? Who had the honours this time?"

"—and you're closer than the motel. Let us in or I'm going to come up there and wring your neck. I don't have time to get around your damned security system."

Or the concentration, if the worry tainting each of Dean's words was any indication. He sounded damn near frantic, and it crossed Bela's mind a touch belatedly that Sam's injury might be serious. More of an actual _shot_; less of a graze.

Not that that would make her hurry.

"Bloody hell," she said, looking longingly at her bed one last time. "You owe me something for this, Dean. I'm not the bloody ER."

But she buzzed him in anyway, and hovered uselessly by her door until they came crashing through, Sam leaning heavily on Dean. Both of their jackets were stained with blood; Sam's face was pinched with pain, Dean's was pinched with something else.

"Buckshot," Dean told her when he elbowed his way by. And he called her impolite. "That fucking _thing_ had a gun."

"With buckshot," echoed Bela, trying to skirt around flailing bloody limbs. She sent them both a supercilious look. "That's… well, almost like karma, wouldn't you say?"

Sam grimaced, and she thought that maybe he appreciated the irony somewhere past the pain. Dean, for his part, looked torn between glaring at her and hauling his brother out of her foyer to somewhere a tad more useful. He chose the latter, heaving a breath and dragging Sam a few steps. Sam grunted with the exertion, flushing before going unnaturally white. Sam must have been dizzy—Dean was overcompensating with each step—and Bela thought absentmindedly about blood loss.

"Spare bedroom is just down the hall." Thought absentmindedly about her pristine white carpet. "Do try not to bleed on the carpet!"

"Yeah," called Dean over his shoulder, "we'll try."

Bloody squatters. Frowning, Bela left them to it and wandered off to fetch herself a cup of coffee. She didn't _want_ to stay up with them—certainly had no intention of _helping_--but she knew there was no way in hell that she was going to be able to sleep through the racket emitting from her spare bedroom. Furthermore, for all she knew, this supposed gunshot wound was only a ploy to get a look at her stash. She had just gotten that amulet and the brothers Winchester had another thing coming if they thought they were going to sneak it away from her and leave her flat alive. It was probably fake blood on their jackets; fake pain on Sam's face.

The door to the spare bedroom opened just as her coffee pot beeped; Dean stuck his head out and lobbed his keys at her head.

"Hey," she protested, just barely catching them.

"First aid kit is in my trunk. Gonna have to dig it out of his arm, damned buckshot." He smirked at her grimace, and sniffed at the air. "Coffee on? I'll take mine with three sugars. Sam's probably not up for it now, but I'll let you know if he changes his mind."

First aid kit? Coffee? _Three_ sugars? Why, that bloody bossy arrogant sugar high ridden… coming into _her_ house and—

The door opened again. "If you touch anything else in my trunk, Bela, I really will shoot you," he threatened. "I know exactly where everything is and I will check it before leaving."

"Fuck off, Dean," she said, not feeling terribly bright at this hour. She was going to key his car, was what she was going to do. The thought made her smile serenely because it was going to be _good_; Dean regarded her suspiciously before slamming the door on what sounded like, "Florence Nightingale will be just two seconds, Sammy."

Florence bleeding Nightingale.

Outside, Bela discovered that the trunk of the Impala was a genuine treasure trove. She squinted at its contents under the questionable lighting in her car park; checked to make sure Dean wasn't watching out the window and drug a fingernail down the barrel of a shotgun. Utterly useless to her that was, but the trunk was full of ritualistic items too. Bloody fools, living in cheap motels and squatting in abandoned houses. If she was to hazard a guess, she figured she could sell the contents of the Impala's truck for a couple hundred thousand—at least.

Her palms itched and her fingers twitched. She checked the window again; saw nothing but her curtains lit up from the backlighting of the spare bedroom. She could see shadows moving inside if she squinted, but they weren't watching her. Thieving instincts demanded a move—she did have her eye on a new car, one that was red perhaps—but then it was late and she was tired. Sighing, she groped around until she found the first aid kit, neatly stored against the curve of the wheel well. Too much bloody work sneaking things back inside anyway.

Once she was back inside herself and Dean had collected his kit with frosty gratitude, Bela went to work herself. She knew beyond a doubt that Dean would check her flat the moment he had a chance; bother was, she had a lot of things squirreled away in the safe in her office. Keeping one ear open for any signs that either brother might be exiting the bedroom, she snuck her things to the safe in her bedroom, one at a time. Poor sweet predictable Dean would never search there when she was at home.

She went back to bed herself half an hour later, trying to block out Sam's shout of, "Man, that fucking hurt!" followed by an indignant, "Dude, you're bleeding all over my jacket."

"Keep it off the carpet!" she howled, thumping face first into her pillow. This was what hospitals were for. This was what drop in clinics were for. This was _not_ what she was for. Scowling, she tried to cover her ears with her blanket, but her efforts were aborted when her cat hopped up beside her and immediately began to attempt to worm his way under her blankets as well.

"They are very loud," she commiserated, reaching down to scratch her cat between the ears.

Sleep was a foolish idea.

It took Sam twelve minutes to shut up, and even then it was such a sudden silence that Bela had to wonder to herself in the darkness. Dean, utterly lacking consideration for her sleep deprived state, was not quiet leaving the bedroom. She listened to him stomp to the bathroom, where he proceeded to turn her water on full blast and swear to himself over something or another. She listened to him stomp to the living room, where he loudly bemoaned the lack of blankets and premade bed on the couch—like she was his mother, or something ridiculous. She listened to him exit her flat, door slamming, only to reenter seven minutes later when she was just about to find something resembling a doze. He granted her half an hour's reprieve then—Bela could sleep through the gentle static of the TV in her living room if she put her mind to blocking it out—but then he was up again, shuffling back and forth between the couch and the spare bedroom. Checking on Sam.

Bela gave Dean an hour to settle, the red flashing numbers on her alarm clock mocking her with each passing second, but settling did not seem to be on his mind. His footsteps beat a regular path to her spare bedroom, every fifteen minutes on the dot. Bother was the spare bedroom was in line with hers. Bother was Dean seemed so _distracted_.

At 5:04, Bela gave up her attempts and kicked off her covers once again. She found Dean seated on the middle cushion of her couch, legs angled far apart and posture slouched. He offered her a grimace of a smile when she entered the room, which she returned with a glare, and gestured to the loveseat. Like she needed his permission to sit. He was holding a half empty bottle of beer in one hand; the hand he gestured with clasped her remote.

"Nice jammies," he told her with a leer.

Made the mistake of glancing down. Her pajamas _were_ nice, simply because everything Bela owned was nice. Silk, the best that money could buy. The robe she had thrown over them left a little to be desired but then it had been nice once too. A decade ago, perhaps. The sight of her bare toes seemed embarrassing to her somehow; she suppressed the childish urge to wiggle them.

"What happened to sleeping naked rolling in money?" Dean asked, when she didn't say anything. Dropped her remote in favour of rubbing a hand down his face. "Gotta say, I mighta preferred that."

"Make you randy, does it? Whatever fight I assume you were involved in? Playing doctor?" She sat down on the loveseat, exactly across from him, and arched an eyebrow.

He smirked at her. "I've got a few months left, baby. _Everything_ makes me horny."

The reminder of his impending death threw her for a moment. Had to look away from the tired resignation—the dogged acceptance—in his eyes; cleared her throat hard.

"Yes, Dean, way to go out with a bang. Or, _banging_, if you will." She waited until he snickered, then leaned forward and said, "Well, pay up. You can't expect to come barging in here for free."

"Pay up? Are you out of your mind?" He pondered this, apparently decided she wasn't, and then reached down to retrieve something from the floor. Tossed her an unopened beer bottle. "That'll do?"

Hardly. "I suppose. This time." Bela hated opening bottles—disliked the scraping feeling on her palm—but she took it like a man and didn't wrap her robe around the cap. "Want to tell me why you avoided the hospital? Do you _honestly_ not have insurance?"

"Oh, I have insurance." The leer was back. "Or at least Tim Benson does."

"Charming. I fail to see after all of this why _I_ am the baddie here."

"Them's the breaks, sweetheart. Nobody likes a mercenary bitch."

He leaned back again, eyes closed and bottle precariously balanced in his loose grip. The beer was a little warm, but it felt good to swallow even if it did settle heavily in Bela's stomach. She leaned back too, tucking her bare feet underneath her coffee table, and regarded Dean.

Relaxation had eased him, somewhat. The set of his jaw was not as tense as it had been—not that she noticed such things—and, other than a subtle purpling of the skin near his left ear, he seemed to be fine, as far as she could tell. At his leisure even, like being able to tend to Sam without medical attention—like being so in charge of everything—had drained him momentarily of all worry. And God knew he had a lot to worry about.

Shaking her head, Bela asked, "Sam's alright then?"

Dean nodded; didn't open his eyes. "Yeah. Gonna have one hell of a headache in the morning though." He mimed a solid punch, and the fleeting smile that crossed his face said _best tranquilizer ever_. "I'm good at digging out buckshot. Done it before. Did it on Dad even, back when Sam was learning to shoot. Got the old man right in the ass. Shoulda heard him caterwauling."

She wondered who would dig out the buckshot when he was gone.

Feeling conversational, or perhaps lulled into complacency by the sleepy tenor of Dean's voice, Bela asked, "Which one?"

A shrug. "Dunno. Both." A smirk. "_Me_. Thought Dad was gonna kick Sam's ass into next week."

Bela thought of her own father and took an extra large swig of her beer. Pondered warning Dean to hold his tighter, lest it spill on her hardwood. See if she'd wipe up the sticky mess.

In the end, she decided to maintain the mood, keep Dean talking. She didn't know him at all, and—what was that saying? Know thy enemy. Enemy, if that was what Dean even was. If that was what you _could_ be with such a looming expiry date—and expiry date, like Dean was milk about to sour.

"How old were you?"

He thought about it for a moment too long; Bela wondered if he'd drifted off. If he had, he roused himself to answer her question, shaking his head but not raising his eyelids. "Twelve." And then, "How did you find out about all this shit anyway? Monster almost get you? To think a hunter probably saved you. Ungrateful bitch." But there was a smile in his voice.

The urge to share back came rushing out of nowhere, and utterly surprised her. Bela Talbot was a private girl, always had been, always would be, and the rush of… _friendship_ she felt towards Dean thoroughly soured the moment for her. She finished her beer in one large swallow, and pushed herself to her feet.

"You should check on him. It's been about seventeen minutes." And that was a bit cruel, perhaps. Her tone.

Dean blinked and sat up, nearly tipping over his beer just like she'd feared. The worry was back on his face, the tension, but she pretended not to see it.

"Right," he said. "Shit, I almost dozed."

"It is almost 5:30. Well past the time for all good little boys and girls to be in bed." _You should sleep_, she wanted to say.

"Oh, Bela," he chided, swatting at her when he walked by, "you know there's nothing good about me."

She watched him walk to the spare bedroom, strut languid and just plain tired. Hated herself a little when she turned towards her linen closet, down the hall by the bathroom. She fished out an extra blanket—actually had to take a pillow off _her_ bed—and left them in a neat stack on the couch. The door to the spare bedroom was still closed when she hurried by it, cheeks aflame with shame and an odd embarrassment. Could hear Dean murmuring inside, absently and to himself. And he would talk to himself. She wasn't even surprised.

Her cat was waiting for her in her bedroom, curled up on the end of her bed. She lowered herself onto her mattress quietly so as not to disturb him, but did not fall asleep herself for a very long time.

* * *

The cell phone woke Bela again, sometime later. This time it was obviously not Dean Winchester on the caller ID, although she wouldn't have put it past him. It was the amulet's buyer, and she answered cognizant of the volume of her voice and the sounds of life coming from the outer reaches of her flat. It was odd to her, not being utterly alone minus the presence of her most beloved cat, and it threw her enough that she had to repeat a few of her questions. In the end, she arranged to meet him the following week in Seattle. There were tickets to book, things to set up, and she needed the brothers Winchester the hell out of her hair.

This time, she got dressed before leaving the confines of her bedroom. Selected a suit appropriate for business, lest they think she did nothing all day and decide to loiter around, and dabbed on the makeup she had on her dresser. Felt more presentable—more like herself—when she emerged.

Naturally, that lasted about as long as it took to make her way to the kitchen, where she found a blurry eyed Sam and a more alert Dean, mouths full and conversation somehow still flowing. It sounded like an argument of some sort; they both shut up when they spotted her.

How weird to see people in her flat; how weird to see _them_.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," greeted Dean, around a mouthful of—were those _her_ eggs?

She cringed at his table manners and primly seated herself. They'd made a plate for her—she wondered if someone had really planned on waking her, or if her eggs would have cooled—and Sam shoved it down the table in her direction. He had the grace to swallow before addressing her.

"Consider it a thank you," he said.

"Thank you?" she echoed, poking at what turned out to be omelet experimentally with her fork. "For what? Stealing my food and cooking me breakfast?"

"You can eat it. I _can_ cook." And Dean sounded affronted, even around the food he was chewing.

Bela heaved a sigh and took a bite. Chewed it thoroughly as she had been taught, and _swallowed_, thanks ever so. "You're welcome," she said, when she was finished. "I _can_ be nice, you know."

Sam grunted around his mouthful and Dean saluted her with his glass of orange juice before they returned to wholeheartedly digging in.

Bela took their moment of… well, _savagery_, really, to take an assessing look at Sam. His colour was not good—he seemed unnaturally gray—and he was sporting a healthy lump where Dean had thumped him last night. He did not look at all well rested; his whole face seemed drawn. Lines framed his mouth and marred what should have been a youthful appearance. He looked tired in a way Dean did not. He looked _old_, absolutely world weary and every other synonym she could think up.

Bela realized with a start that the truth of the brothers' situation was written all over Sam's face. A secretive glance at Dean did not reveal any of the same expressions, but Sam himself was like a walking billboard, perhaps not of _My Brother Is Going __To__ Hell_, but definitely of _My Brother Is Going To Die_. Like it was all Sam's burden, and not at all Dean's. She herself felt quite scientific about the whole thing, and she continued to regard Sam speculatively as she chewed.

"Sammy here is taking his wound like a man," Dean announced to no one in particular, patting his brother proudly on the back. Took care not to jar the wound hidden beneath the lump of bandages she could make out under his shirt.

"He has some practice. What a hero!" she said brightly, which made Dean beam and Sam grimace.

After breakfast, the brothers made no pretense of wanting to stick around, even though Bela doubted Sam was fit to travel. Dean made quick work of straightening up the spare room and refolding the blankets on the couch with military rigidity, while Sam did the dishes one handed. He ignored her request to at least wipe the counters; Dean told her to fuck right off yesterday already when she doggedly followed him into the spare bedroom. Bela contented herself by sitting at her counter, watching them work. Watching them work like some terribly organized cleaning team. Debated doing her nails.

An hour later, Sam cried bathroom when Dean announced their departure.

"Better go, Sammy. Not pulling over," Dean called to his brother's retreating back. His jacket was back on, first aid kit was in hand, and the keys to the Impala dangled from his fingers. "Be seeing you, Bela."

She shrugged, uncomfortable with an exit that was not of her own making. Rolled her eyes dramatically. "As much as I don't want to…"

"Oh, please. You know you want to see me _all_ the time. Send the kid down, will you?" And, on a needlessly hasty exit of his own, "Thanks."

She watched him until he was down the hallway, and then closed the door. Sam was right behind her when she turned, and Bela knew she was _this_ close to having a heart attack. Really.

"Lurk much, Sam?" she scoffed, taking a step back. He was lucky she wasn't armed.

"What? No." Something flashed in his eyes, and he hopped once, twice, three times from foot to foot. Cleared his throat. "You're in the business."

Bela nodded, a tad harshly.

"You know my brother's… situation." Sam's voice caught, but she pretended she hadn't heard it. His chin was set with determination.

She nodded again, quick and succinct out of respect for the magnitude of their problem. All professionalism.

"Do me a favour, will you?" Cajoling now, and she knew that this was how Sam dealt with old women. It was only because Bela had met him a time or two that she caught the desperation. "Keep your eyes open…?"

It hurt her to say it, surprisingly. Had to look down at her feet so that she wouldn't have to face the fire, the dreadful _need_, in his eyes. "There's nothing for it that I've ever seen," she murmured. "A deal is a deal."

He said, "I'll pay" like that was the problem.

It caught her anyway; almost made her laugh. "You'll pay? How?"

He glowered down at her, and it was awe-inspiring, given his size. "I'll find a way, Bela. I swear to you, find Dean a way out of his deal, and I'll find a way to pay." And he thought she was disgusting, she could hear it.

Well, business was business, and yet… She kept her tone soft and said again to his shoes, "I've never heard of anything, Sam. Not a thing. I'm sorry."

"Just… just let me know if that changes." Not begging, but the closest she could imagine a Winchester to it. He seemed resigned now too, but there was a stubbornness to him that she had never sensed in Dean. He touched her arm, and opened the door. "Thanks, Bela. Really."

"Not a problem."

She locked the door when he left.

Frowning to herself, she moved to the window that faced the car park. Watched Dean help his brother into the car; watched the Impala wind its way out of the lot until she couldn't see it anymore. She stood at her window for a long time, thinking. Wondering if she'd ever see him again, before…

Before.

"Under five months left," she whispered to herself. "Dean Winchester will be dead in under five months."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

Bela Talbot did her thing.

She sold the amulet; consulted spirits. Came across a portrait that may or may not have been cursed, and sold it in a flash under the pretense that it was. She researched, researched, _researched_, marking her finds out with a pencil on a map she kept in her briefcase. She arranged to meet a seller in California—drew a neat grey line under San Diego—one week, and another in Nevada the next. Money came and money went; Bela Talbot was smiling inside like a maniacal millionaire.

But she did not forget. Not once. The tone of Sam's voice, the look in his eyes… And so she asked the seller in California, the seller in Nevada, and the spirits just one more time. She researched an extra chapter here and there; marked on a different map possible leads in bright red ink—and get it? Red like hellfire? She put the word out; told the right people when she came across them. Told the people who would tell the right people. _Bela Talbot's gotta buyer who wants out of a crossroads deal. Willing to pay whatever_. If there was anything, she'd know. She'd know eventually, and she wouldn't _think_--

It amused her too to research the Winchesters. Not _research_ exactly, she knew, but track. In the map she was using to mark prospective soul saving sales, she also kept a running tally of where the Winchesters were. There was a poltergeist in Philadelphia that she heard about through the grapevine, an everyday haunting in Maryland. Possession in Miami—imagined Dean on the beaches and snickered to herself. She never imagined which hunt would be his last; did not know them well enough that she couldn't convince herself she didn't hear the clock ticking.

Bela felt desperation too, but it had nothing to do with Sam—nothing even to do with Dean. It was huge, it was consuming, it was her terrible secrets, and she couldn't concentrate as much as she would have liked on the situation at hand without feeling like something was sitting on her chest, crushing her lungs and suffocating her. And so she didn't think about that either.

The brothers were in Oregon at the same time she was, but she did not seek them out—had no reason to run into them. She wanted the book the seller was offering badly, and she was not about to forfeit it to her when-it-suited-them friends. Set up shop in an actual _hotel_, and did not--_would she see him again if she didn't act now? Could this be the last time?_--think about Dean.

The hotel was nice, of course, and her bed was comfortable and lump free. Bela missed her cat, though she would never have owned to it; missed… well, _a lot_ really. The bother with Dean's impending doom was that it made her think of her _own_ hopefully incredibly far away demise. If their roles were reversed…?

"At least Dean has Sam," Bela offered the darkness of her bedroom.

Bela Talbot had a cat, who was currently miles and miles away in Queens. Bela Talbot had sellers and buyers—not _friends_. No one would give much of a shit if she went to Hell, although it occurred to her somewhat troublingly that Dean and Sam would probably make a bit of an effort to stop it—and for free too, fools. Bela was not acting for free, lest the maps and her research be misleading. Bela had every intention of holding Sam financially responsible if she found something that might even feasibly be a _lead_.

* * *

Sam Winchester called her on her fourth day in Oregon. The caller ID read Dean Winchester, and her heart thudded hard on anticipation—she _had_ been alone, seller aside, the entire time. She hadn't known it until she saw his name, but banter she wanted. It was familiar; it would be _nice_.

Rolled over onto her stomach, legs kicking up in the air behind her like a stupid teenage girl, and flipped open her phone.

"Do you miss me already?" she asked, a touch gleefully.

There was a snort on the end, followed by something perilously close to a giggle. She was trying not to blush when a deep male voice said, "Hey, Bela."

Sam, not Dean. She cringed at her tone and squashed all not-disappointment. Flopped back over onto her back, pinched the bridge of her nose, and fought to be all business.

"Why, if it isn't little Sam Winchester," she greeted, tone high and happy since she knew it annoyed him. "What did you do? Steal your brother's phone?"

On the other end of the line, Sam scoffed. "Dean's dead to the world. I could steal a lot more than his phone before he noticed."

Couldn't help it. Examining her fingernail, she let out her very best impression of porno music, a _bom chica wha wah_ ruined by her British accent.

"What?" She could almost see him blink, if she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough. "What? No. I didn't have your number and so I—"

"Oh, save me the long and boring explanation."

A pause. Sam had never been able to deal with her like Dean could. Sam she frustrated, and in a way that she didn't frustrate Dean. Oh, she _annoyed_ Dean of course, but when she annoyed Sam, he was not to be misled by it. Was not one to engage in unnecessary chit chat when succinctness would do. He was too narrow-minded to manipulate unlike his brother; too focused and wary by half.

And so Sam did not play games with her, when Dean might have indulged in innuendo. "I'm calling about… what we talked about earlier. Wanted to make sure you didn't forget."

"Forget my dear friend Dean? Bloody unlikely! I'm still bitter at him over the rabbit's foot." She sighed dramatically over Sam's grumble. "I think it's still too early to forget. I've always been one for grudges." But then she made her voice serious, or at the very least professional. "I'm sorry, Sam. It's like I said. There's nothing. I haven't heard a thing."

"Oh." Disappointment so heavy Bela could feel it.

She held her breath when she asked, "Have you had any luck?"

"Nothing." Sam sighed, resignedly. "I wish he'd fuck off sometimes, you know? He'd have my head if he knew I was looking, and I _can't_ with him always here."

"He's passed out right now, is he not?" she asked so softly that it whistled, like her voice from miles away would wake Dean over the phone. "Sort of like fucking off."

"I'd only have a few hours."

But it didn't sound like a _no I am going to wait until my drunken brother comes to so that he can continue to hamper my marvelous if fatalistic plans_. He was quiet after that, for so long that Bela thought for a moment he'd hung up. Checked her phone and everything, but the timer was still running. Their call was one minute, five seconds, and counting. It felt longer.

"I've put the word out," she offered eventually.

One minute, eight seconds. Sam sighed so loudly she was surprised Dean didn't come to life right there and then.

"So there's nothing to do but wait." Didn't sound happy.

"No."

"I'll be in touch then." And he hung up, timer blinking to a stop at one minute, eleven seconds.

Sam Winchester did not like to say thank you either.

* * *

Bela heard about Ruby from a seller who heard it from a buyer who heard it from a hunter who heard it from a demon, and Bela did not like what she heard about Ruby and Sam. She herself had never met the girl, but she disliked her almost instantly on principle.

Bela liked organized thought; Bela liked to map things in her mind. Bela liked knowing _motives_, and everything about Ruby was unpredictable. Demons were, by nature. Unguided, with distinct sociopathic tendencies. Bela liked money, sure, and perhaps that made her a great big baddie in some people's books, but she knew she was innately predictable. Greed was a motive, but the motives of demons could be all over her metaphorical map.

Ruby was a wild card, and Bela did not like the sound of half murmured promises. This was Dean Winchester's bloody _fate_, and Bela felt instinctively that Ruby had to be taken out of the picture. Eliminated. _Hunted_. The Winchesters and their fabled Colt, doing their sodding job the way it was meant to be done.

She had a text message ready for Dean--_Watch out for Ruby, you bleeding idiot!_--but erased it before hitting send. If Dean didn't know the extent of Sam and Ruby's relationship, Dean hadn't done any digging. If Dean hadn't done any digging, Dean was holding out some sort of horrible long-shot hope and she couldn't—

Besides, she was not Dean Winchester's keeper.

* * *

There was a sleep snatcher—a sandman in layman's terms—hanging around a small town near the Canadian border in Montana. Bela didn't like to travel that far, but the thing guaranteed that there would be hunters, there would be a dead sandman, and there would be the sand, most likely in possession of said hunters. Bela knew hunters, contrary to what some liked to believe, and she knew money. She had no doubt that the sand would be hers by the end of the weekend.

The very thought of it made her smile as she did up her coat and exited her car, making her way through the parking lot to a dingy looking dive called The Crown—or so the flashing neon sign hanging haphazardly over the entrance told her. The sand, in opposition to what everyone else said it did, was notorious for causing sleep deprivation, and she knew how well items causing slow and painful deaths were likely to go for. It made her palms itch and her lips twitch with anticipation.

The only bother lay in finding the hunters before they moved on, but The Crown looked like just the place to house them. She snuck in the door as stealthily as possible, cringing at the smell of stale booze and… oh Lord, was that urine? Bad country western music assailed her ears, louder even than the general chatter going on around her. At least it wasn't a karaoke bar, Bela told herself, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who did not look promising. Her gun's weight was a comforting presence in her pocket—and that was just one of those things because surely _normal_ people weren't used to packing heat in dumps like this. Or perhaps they were.

Bela was so busy debating the merits of bringing along a weapon that she was not even aware she had wandered directly in front of someone's table until a hand smacked her soundly—if a little too familiarly—on the arse. _Cupped_ it more like, brief and yet still somehow lingering, like a lover. Barely resisting the urge to draw that weapon of hers, Bela pasted on her best bitch face and spun around, ready to rip whoever had dared to touch her a new one.

"Do you mind?!" she began, trying to decide if she wanted trouble.

She found Dean Winchester, rocking himself back and forth on the legs of his chair and wearing a smirk that could have charmed the panties off a nun. Found Dean Winchester looking very much alive, tired and perhaps a tad drunk. Found Dean Winchester in his normal state and—wait a minute, found the bloody _hunters_. She should have known it was the Winchesters, shouldn't she have?

Bela Talbot was no nun. Thief, mercenary, and all that.

Upping the wattage of her own smile, she pulled out the chair across from him and took a seat. "Been wanting to do that for a while?" she asked, reaching forward to take a swig from his bottle of beer. "All you had to do was ask. I already told you I'm not at all opposed to angry sex. Or drunken sex, come to think of it. Or sex in Montana." Batted her eyelashes, and attempted to look coquettish.

It made Dean squirm. Kind of funny to her his response, the king of all things bedroom related uncomfortable when it was directed right back at him. He spluttered out a reply she did not catch; regained his cool enough to snatch back his beer.

"Get your own drink, woman," he snipped, all righteous prissy indignation. He sounded a bit like Sam, she thought. "God knows what I'd catch from you."

"Afraid of cooties? How cute. But perhaps…" She trailed off, eyes lighting on something of interest.

For the first time, Bela noticed that Dean was resting his elbow on a book entitled Normal Sleep, Sleep Physiology, and Sleep Deprivation: General Principles by one Dr. Russo—the title alone explained the somewhat haggard and almost… well… _pissy_, for lack of a better word, look on Dean's face. She couldn't imagine him making his way through the text. Sam maybe; he seemed like the smarter brother. Dean seemed like the kind of guy who preferred picture books. She smiled at him again, and tipped her own chair back.

"Sleep deprivation?" she questioned, trying to sound innocent. "Why, Dean, are you hunting a _sandman_?"

He slammed his arm over the title of the book and tried to look nonchalant. Failed, and landed somewhere closer to extremely brassed off. Again, she noticed how tired he was: the bags under his eyes and the wan colour of his skin. _Hardly anytime left now_, a voice singsonged from somewhere evil inside of her head. Her stomach clenched, and she fought to maintain her smirk. And yet, Dean looked _physically_ like he was dying. She did a quick once over with her eyes, trying to find a wound. He looked sleepy, looked a bit mussed, but all together not… shot or anything. Dean wasn't bleeding, at any rate.

"Sandman's dead, Bela. Guess you're after his sand? Too bad for you. Destroyed it, as well as that son of a bitch's wrinkled corpse. I'd rather get my dreams from somewhere else, thank you." His gaze was all cockiness, and his chair squeaked when he rocked back and forth. She hoped the chair legs gave, or that he overbalanced. Looked like he might keel over from exhaustion, and she crossed her fingers in her lap before what he said registered.

Pure disappointment rendered her speechless when the news kicked in; she imagined Dean Winchester stomping on dollar signs and laughing in her face. She was out _a lot_ of money, she had driven all the way out to Montana, her weekend was wasted, and Dean bloody Winchester was looking at her like the cat who swallowed the canary.

God, she missed her cat. Imagined burying her face in the softness of his belly; imagined never once having met the self-satisfied bastard sitting across from her.

"Dream in the context of the song refers to a woman, you dolt. Or a man, depending." God, she sounded like Sam herself. And, wait a minute… "If you killed it, why the books? Little late for research, isn't it?"

She knew true fiendish delight when Dean drew his brows together, clearly fighting for a thought, and was too distracted with the general slowness of his brain to stop the fleeting look of shame that danced across his features.

"Obviously I want to know about the function of my temporal lobe," he sassed, throwing back a large swallow of his drink. His chair _thunked_ back down when he leaned forward, and he was angry. Or at least _grouchy_. "Obviously I care just so fucking much about REM."

And Bela laughed. Right in his face, as loud as she could. Smacked the table with her palm and came away with a sticky hand. Barely resisted the urge to point at him, she was so caught up in her own glee. This was almost worth her wasted time; her lost money.

"It got you! That's why you look so terrible! You haven't slept!" She was so amused she flagged down the waitress for another round of drinks. Let a vague gesture say _I'll have what he's having_.

"It didn't get me," he denied. "I got _it_. Told you. Burned that fucker right up."

"It got you first," Bela contradicted. And things weren't so bad. It wasn't like she had a potential buyer lined up. She had wanted the sand just because. It was hard to lose money she had never had—disappointing, yes, but this was cheering her up immensely.

The waitress brought her a beer, and Dean a new one. Dean snatched hers before she had a chance, twisted off the cap without so much as a wince, and pushed it back in Bela's direction. All smooth, all relatively habitual, like he was used to getting girls in dives like this by being able to open their drinks. Probably couldn't afford to actually buy them one, in a proper mug. And why hadn't the waitress gotten rid of the cap for her anyway? Poor service was what was to be found in this bloody slum. Looking around her at the questionable patronage, Bela sniffed.

Dean balanced the cap on its side and tried to flick it at her, idly and like they were playing quarters. It teetered momentarily, stuck in a scar on the table, and then plummeted right off the side, bouncing off the toe of Bela's shoe. He smiled at that—looked proud maybe even—like it was some kind of victory.

"I'm too tired to play your games," Dean admitted eventually, even though she wasn't necessarily playing any. "I haven't slept in four days. Bobby said now that the bastard's dead I've probably got the rest of this night left before it wears off. I'm going to sleep like the dead then, lemme tell you."

It was a testament to how tired Dean was that she could actually _see_ him debating the pros and cons of laughing in the face of his own death, of making some stupid hell related crack that would have been sure to push her buttons—or at least make things terribly uncomfortable. Sleepiness won, and he huffed at her grumpily, which was just as well all things considered.

Bela thought unpleasantly of Bobby, but said, "Where's Sam?"

Dean's lip twitched. "Freak boy is comatose at the moment. Gets sand on him and is out like Sleeping friggin' Beauty. Sam's just got to be ass backwards all the damned time."

Bela's smile was instantaneous; Sam was obviously good enough for Dean to be out, and therefore didn't warrant concern. Not that he warranted it anyway. "Touching. Now all you have to do is find Prince Charming." She puckered her lips and made kissing motions in Dean's direction.

Dean raised red eyes to meet hers and barked out one guffaw. "Aw, man, Bela. That's my joke!" he said, shaking his head.

The rush of pleasure in the pit of her stomach was unexpected. Wondered if she blushed a little, and took a drink to hide it. Realized for the first time that Dean's foot had moved to squish the living daylights out of that bottle cap, and that his shoe was resting idly against hers. He probably didn't realize—he was so tired; hadn't slept—and so Bela fought to keep her cool. And besides: stop the presses! Their feet were touching!

"Not how it works normally, but I did some research," he was saying, cringing at the last bit. "Sam should wake up right around the time I pass out. Something to do with the whole army of hell thing, or psychics, or—" A yawn. "—Christ, I don't remember. Something to do with something that proves he's a freak… and it's okay now that the bastard is dead cause that means his mojo will wear off, and I came down for something to drink to stay awake… not that I can sleep anyway, but… I have to go back to the room soon because…"

Dean seemed to lose his train of thought in that sudden way that exhausted people tended to, fixating instead on the same scar in the table that had derailed his cap. He brushed it with his fingernail, tracing its length down the table, and didn't seem particularly inclined to finish his sentence. Yawned again, so wide that Bela thought she might have seen his tonsils.

"You have to go back because Sam is vulnerable," she finished for him. "How sweet, how touching, how brotherly."

She pushed herself up from the table, accidentally knocking Dean's finger away from the scar's path. He looked at her, bleary eyed and surprised, and she hoped that this wasn't the last time she saw him; memorized it in case it was. The fact that he had to shave, the bags under his eyes, the vacant expression… it was not the Dean she was used to, it was not Dean anywhere near his best, but if it was the _last_ time—

"Well, my business here is done, since you destroyed my source of income for the weekend." She threw a twenty down on the table to cover their drinks and wound his pride, and hopped back when Dean, utterly horrified, tried to shove it back at her. "Be seeing you around, Dean."

She hoped.

And if not, did she get points for an exit of her own making this time? She thought so. Should have stolen something to make it sting, but he was tired enough to almost take the fun out of it. Perhaps she'd track him down once more before… _before_ and do it for shits and giggles. A farewell he'd get. Something to remember him by, but Bela refused to think that, even as she wondered idly just what she would steal to achieve that goal.

Dean caught her out in the parking lot, just as she was about to get into her car. He was out of breath and unsteady on his feet, wobbly from lack of sleep rather than alcohol consumption, she thought. Doubted he'd leave Sam long enough to get rightfully blitzed. He caught onto her arm when she was maneuvering her way through the door to the driver's seat; Bela glanced down in surprise, and saw that he had a scab on his thumb, picked and likely about to scar. If a scar had time to really form before… then.

When she looked up at his face, Dean had resorted back to doing the squirmy thing that put her in mind of a six year old. He looked uncomfortable, too weary to help himself out, and utterly lacking all social skills. Unsure of boundaries: _this is the girl I flirt with but never fuck; this is the girl who is a friend but an enemy, but nothing at all and…_ Bela got that, and she got what he wanted to ask too.

Didn't mean she had to make it easy on him. "Did I not leave enough for a tip?" she questioned, cocking her head.

The mention of the money irritated Dean; he shoved his hand in his coat pocket and then pushed a twenty in her direction. It was not _her_ twenty—the one he was offering looked older and like it had been washed—and…

"Oh, is that counterfeit?" she questioned, irritated herself. "If you're going to make such a fuss, at least give me back _real_ money."

"Good as real," he assured her. "Idiots round here don't know any different. Wouldn't know a counterfeit bill if it…" His train of thought was gone again; he occupied himself with a quick survey of the inside of her car, expression blank.

"This has been quaint," Bela told him, but she did not close the car door. Dean's hand was still on her arm, and she could feel the heat of his palm permeating through her coat. He was clenching and unclenching his hand, distracted. She made a move to reclaim her arm, hoping to jostle him into action.

It worked. Letting out a whistle of a breath, Dean fought for his old attitude and managed a half decent smirk. "Wanna come keep me company for a bit? Sam's boring as all hell passed out like that, and I've got oh… say, a _long_ fucking time before I can sleep."

She flashed him her teeth. Hit the automatic locks so he could get into the passenger side.

"Why, Dean, are you _finally_ caving into the urge to sleep with me?" Crap like that didn't make Bela blush; she was comfortable here. "And with your brother passed out on the next bed too!"

"God, woman, stop throwing yourself at me!" He smacked her automatic locks, grabbed onto her arm again, and hauled her out, hip checking the door shut behind her. "And we're taking _my_ car. Wouldn't be caught dead riding shot gun in _that_ fancy piece of flippery."

She followed him to the Impala under great duress. Waited patiently by the passenger side for him to come around and hold the door for her. Dean threw her a petulant glare—why had he even _invited_ her?—and steadfastly refused; let himself in and made smirking arrogant faces at her through the window until she was ready to say to hell with him and go back to her own hotel. He waited until the last possible moment before reaching over and throwing up the lock.

The door squealed when she opened it and probably weighed more than her whole car; she smashed her lips together and refused to comment on the Impala one way or the other once she was inside. Dean watched her, waiting for teenybopper glee or something demented like that. Waited a long time before scowling and starting the car. It hummed to life beneath her; even made her vibrate a little in her seat. Bored, Bela glanced out the window.

"Such a stereotype," she informed him at last. "You and this car. Does it make you feel all powerful and manly?"

Dean threw the car in gear and revved his way out of the parking lot before shooting her a disgusted look. "_What_?!"

Bela pressed on, determined. "It would make more sense for you to have something with a bigger boot. Maybe a station wagon?"

"Bela?" He was pondering her logic, all fake sincerity. "Just shut up. Don't talk about cars with me. Ever."

She batted her eyelashes at him but he was watching the road. "Did you not invite me along for my company? I'm just trying to _be_ company, Dean."

"Yeah well, I like your company better silent." Flashed his teeth in her direction, a ghoulish impression of a smile. "I'm stopping for something to drink. Think you can be quiet all the way to the gas station?"

"Are you too tired to drive?" And it was a real concern all of a sudden.

"Silence, Bela," he replied, voice soothing and low. "Work on it." And with that, he reached forward and flicked on the radio.

* * *

Stopping for drinks consisted of picking up a four pack of Red Bull at the first gas station they passed. Dean made a fuss over the purchase, bitching about what kind of yuppies drank Red Bull, but lit up like a light bulb when they passed a hat stand on the way to the till. Flipped on a trucker hat that said MONTANA in tacky capital green letters, and beamed at her.

"Hey, Bela!" He thumped her in the side with the box of Red Bull. "I'm Kevin freaking Federline!"

Far from it, she thought, warming again inexplicably. His goofy grin made her smile, and prompted her to say, "Does that make me Britney Spears?"

The goofy grin turned into a leer and Dean arched an eyebrow at her. "Depends. Wearing any panties?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said. And then, for good measure, "You pervert."

He smacked her arm with the box of Red Bull again before moseying on ahead of her to pay. Over his shoulder, he called out, "A night with Dean Winchester! Will the fun never stop!"

* * *

The fun stopped almost immediately when Dean shoved a napkin with a clumsily drawn map scrawled on it and ordered her to direct him back to the motel. He'd been too tired to _really_ pay attention, he informed her a tad sheepishly, and so had made a map as he went. They got lost twice before finding it, which made Dean positively livid, and still managed to nearly drive past it on the third go around. He was swearing under his breath about training and exercises and fucking _easy_ directions; stomped ahead of her into the motel. Left her to wander through the parking lot of the cheapest, scariest dump she had ever seen by herself, but remembered belated to rush back and hold the door open for her.

The fun stopped even more, if that was even possible, when Bela stepped into the motel room.

The inside did nothing to alter her opinion of the place, put together during her half walk half run in from outside. Two double beds complete with saggy mattresses and faded covers that might once have been red sat imperfectly in line on stained yellow carpet. There was no chair, no other furniture at all, save for a scarred night table shoved haphazardly between the beds; this poor abused piece of furniture was covered in take out bags. She could barely make out the blinking of an alarm clock through the bright arch on a McDonald's bag. Even the TV was not on furniture _exactly_, unless one counted the wobbly wired thing on which it was perched as something. And the room smelled too, she noted unhappily—like smoke, mildew, sadness, and… Well, Bela figured the lingering scent of grease just might have been the take out.

Neither Dean nor Sam seemed at all put out by the squalor in which they were living. Sam was tucked up cozily underneath that horrid red cover that had probably never been introduced to a washing machine in its hundreds of years of existence; his feet were poking out the end of the bed, but he didn't appear at all bothered by that either. Dean flipped the cover over his brother's exposed toes when he walked by, pausing momentarily to lob the case of Red Bull at the other bed. It bounced once before flopping onto its side; Dean scowled at it before making his way into the only other room—the bathroom by Bela's calculations.

"Make yourself right at home," he called over his shoulder, before slamming the bathroom door in her face. She noted with no little distress that someone had carved FUCK into the wood.

Fuck indeed. Figuring that it was highly unlikely that she would ever feel at home here, Bela gingerly shifted her weight from foot to foot and then went to take a curious look at Sam. There was no doubt in her mind that he had gotten the better end of things: his complexion was healthy, his features relaxed. He wasn't even snoring. _He_ didn't look like he needed a map on a napkin to navigate here and there--assuming he was awake, of course.

She was just debating whether or not to poke him when the bathroom door opened and closed, and Dean announced, "Wakes up occasionally to eat, but it's not really like waking up, you know? More like sleepwalking. Friggin' creepy." And he shuddered, a touch too dramatically, before throwing himself onto the other bed. Got out a can of Red Bull, cracked it open, and grimaced around his first swallow.

"Man," he said, scowling at the can, "this stuff tastes like shit."

"Perhaps with vodka?" she offered. Everything, after all, was better with vodka.

Dean shrugged. "Got no vodka."

After that, a rather uncomfortable silence reigned. Two things became clear to Bela almost immediately: firstly, inviting her over seemed to have been a bit of an impulse and Dean, who was lazily flipping through channels on the TV, appeared too tired to be much good at entertaining; perhaps he just wanted her around as comforting background noise. Secondly, Bela suspected that Dean really wasn't used to spending heaps of platonic time with anyone outside of his comatose brother, and the awkward sidelong glances he kept shooting her way only served to highlight just how out of his league he was feeling. Bela, for her part, wasn't used to spending a lot of time with anyone who wasn't her cat, and she couldn't think of a way to end their silence. Not one witty quip to make the lines marring his forehead disappear; one soothing sentence—like she was _ever_ good at those—to make him smile.

Furthermore, her feet hurt. Obviously, this was not a huge concern, but, feeling as uncomfortable as she was, it soon became something normal to focus on, and then the pain was overwhelming. Her heels were sinking into the horrible carpet at awkward angles, but she couldn't quite bring herself to remove them. She was wearing nylons under her trousers—a proper lady knows that the true way to professionalism could only be discovered with nylons, not socks, her grandmother had always said—and the idea of nothing but that thin fabric standing between her feet and the carpet stains turned her stomach.

Dean apparently did not share her concern, as used to dumps like this as he was. His shoes lay forgotten, one near the bathroom and one near the door, and Bela tried not to see that the bottoms of his white socks were dirty. Sam's feet, when she had seen them poking out from under the comforter, were bare. She was contemplating things like when her last tetanus shot had been, and what she could _actually_ catch from the carpet of a motel that clearly should have been condemned when Dean spoke again.

"You can sit down, you know." And, under his breath, "Your highness."

So he had noticed her somewhat snotty behavior then. Bela had to bite her tongue hard so as not to point out the complete and utter lack of chairs. But that was alright; she was an adult, and she could sit beside Dean, thanks ever so. She lowered herself onto his bed stiffly, which prompted Dean to make a wisecrack about bedbugs and germs, and kicked off her heels when she could guarantee that her feet wouldn't come into contact with the floor; hoped he was kidding about the bedbugs. She had painted her toenails pink, and the bright colour winked up at her through her nylons, odd and out of place so close to the faded comforter.

"And the rich bitch goes slumming," Dean commented, crossing his legs. There was a hole near his big toe in one sock. His elbow was touching hers.

She chanced a glance at him when his tone was all defensive posturing, and was surprised to see that his expression was nearing ashamed. Embarrassed, maybe even. Bela stole a can of Red Bull to end the uncomfortable moment; grimaced herself over the too sweet taste.

"How typical of you, Dean," she said, after a moment, "hogging the control. How very alpha male."

"How very… shut the fuck up," he returned lamely, before pounding the pillow he'd placed behind his back into submission. He surprised her by fluffing the other one nicely and placing it against the headboard so that she could lean back too. So the alpha male wasn't entirely without manners. Bela leaned back carefully, and stared at their feet on the end of the bed, his so much further down than hers.

What Dean had found to watch turned out to be a marathon of _Charmed_--be still her heart. She put up with his completely irritating questions—"Which sister do you think is the easiest? There's always one naughty sister. Got to be, statistically speaking. Bet they know some kinky magic shit" and "Man oh man, if me and Sam could get a hunt there, if they were like, y'know, _real_, I bet you that Alyssa what's her name wouldn't be able to control herself around me. I'm a sex _god_. How on earth do you resist?" and "If you were into women, which would be wow… like totally hot, which one would you do?"---and cringed each time any of the so-called charmed ones had to do anything at all related to magic. It irked Bela for no real reason, these sisters running around with heaving bosoms and attractive boyfriends, and the show—and Dean, let's be honest—set her teeth on edge.

She put up with it for two whole episodes, which she thought was nice and fair and exceptionally polite of her, before ambushing Dean and stealing the control on a moment of surprise. Flicked off the TV.

"This is utterly boring," she told him, trying not to smile at the mock-hurt expression on his tired face. "You are the worst host ever. I should have gone back to my own motel but now I am stranded here without a car, and I refuse to watch one more second of that inane show. Do you not even have a deck of cards?"

Dean mimicked her, snottily rolling his eyes, but he stood up and found a deck at the bottom of a duffel bag anyway. It was missing the king of hearts and an eight of spades, which led to a long and drawn out battle over how to remedy it. In the end, they decided to ignore it and opted to play poker, which only worked for about forty minute before falling to shit over the missing cards, the fact that both of them were cheating, and Dean's never-ending pout over the fact that it was not strip poker.

They tried Crazy Eights after that, promising on their honour not to cheat at it. Bela didn't; Dean did—"Well, how the fuck was I to know that you told the _truth_ with your stupid pledge of honour?"—and then tried Go Fish, of all the stupid games, afterwards, which worked no better since they were both back to cheating. That game ended with weapons drawn and it was all so _dumb_ that Bela ended up giggling until Dean had to smile too. He was too tired to play cards anyway, he told her, as a truce. Couldn't see well enough to keep the numbers straight, and he moseyed away from her back to the bathroom, grin sleepy but very much present.

Bela straightened up the deck in Dean's absence, nearly seeing red when she found a two of diamonds, the exact card she had needed to win the damn Go Fish game, hidden underneath his pillow. Swearing under her breath, she shoved the cards back into their box and nudged aside the McDonalds bag to see the time. The blinking red numbers on the alarm clock informed her that it was nearing four in the morning, and the fact that she was all of a sudden quite tired could have been from the realization that it was later than she'd thought, or could have been genuine. Glancing at Sam snuggled up tight and sleeping like the dead only reinforced it, and she was fighting a yawn when Dean came back out.

"I can drive you back to your car," he offered, stopping to reexamine the Crappiest Map Ever drawn on the napkin. Yawned, like it was the last thing in the world he actually wanted to do, before adding hopefully, "Or you could stay here and we'll get rid of you in the morning. You know, whatever."

_That_ was the last thing in the world Bela wanted to do, to be stuck in this dump of a place with one Winchester brother who couldn't wake up and another who wouldn't be able to sleep for a few more hours. The intimacy of the suggestion pressed heavily on her chest, like they were friends who knew each other well enough for slumber parties and confidences. This wasn't Sam wounded in her flat; this was one goddamned bed, and the fact that stupid goddamned Dean looked too tired to stand, let alone safely return her to her car. The muscles between her shoulders bunched, and Bela fought hard not to panic.

"Whatever," she said, voice tight. And wasn't that the lamest most stupid thing to say ever.

Dean shrugged at her and went back to the bathroom, duffel in hand. He returned wearing pajama pants and a white t-shirt, his hair rumpled from the change. She took the new outfit to mean that he had made up his mind for the both of them, and was going with the getting rid of her in the morning plan. Settled himself back down onto the bed beside her and flipped the TV on again. The mattress lurched in the direction of his weight, and the springs complained nearly as loudly as the voice in Bela's head.

Smirking in her direction, he told her, "This is your chance to take advantage of me in my vulnerable and weak state. I'm way too fucking tired to make an intelligent decision."

"Oh, because that would be the best sex ever. You'll probably pass out halfway through." And Bela, faced with the idea of having to sleep beside Dean, beside anyone God help her, was suddenly grouchy. "I'll pass, thanks ever so. Just hush up and watch your TV."

She pushed herself off of the bed so fast that she forgot about the sodden disgusting floor, and came nylon to carpet with one of the larger, more suspicious stains. Dean, whose eyes were focused on the TV, was clearly terribly aware of her reactions, if the slight tic in his jaw was any indication, and she nearly passed out holding in a tiny mewl of revulsion over the floor. Chin tipped high with more pride than she felt at the moment, she sashayed—or tried to—towards the bathroom and away from Dean and his fragile poor man's ego.

The bathroom, all things considered, was better than she could ever have imagined. She made quick work of her business, before carefully stepping out of her trousers and then, mercifully, out of her bloody nylons. Fine, Grandmother, she thought, an hour or two for professionalism. Not a whole goddamned night with that "I can suck in anything" control top digging into her, not one sodding minute more. This presented the problem of what exactly to do with her nylons now; in the end, she wrapped them in a towel and shoved them back as far as she could in the cabinet under the sink, promising herself she'd return to her properly dictated attire tomorrow. First thing. Right off. She felt guilty leaving the bathroom without them, not to mention that she was now barefoot to carpet.

In her absence, Dean had pulled the covers on his bed back; had put her pillow back into its proper position. He'd also turned off the lights and re-tucked in Sam, if the newly tightened state of his cover was any indication. He was still sitting on top of the covers, quietly watching TV and sipping on his cursed Red Bull; didn't even so much as glance in her direction as she made her way back to the bed, guided by the blue light of the television.

"You looked tired," was what he barked when she lowered herself awkwardly onto the sheets, afraid to get too close and accidentally touch him. Dean said it like an order, a command. Entirely too gruffly to be anything other than extremely embarrassed by his current situation. "Won't touch you. Scout's honour."

He might have smirked something along the lines of lacking the desire too, but Bela ignored him in favour of settling in. Rolled over so that her back faced him, and was promptly distracted by the fact that she was very close indeed. Thought she could feel his hip, or perhaps that was his hand, and Lord, they should have just shagged because she had a terrible feeling that this was much worse. Bela closed her eyes, bit her lap, and tried to ignore how scratchy the pillowcase was.

"You'd better not lay so much as a finger on me," she warned in acknowledgement. "I can shoot even in my sleep."

He snorted, a huff of _I don't believe you, you girl, but whatever_. Bela resisted the childish urge to kick backwards into whatever she might hit, and concentrated as hard as she could on sleeping. Somewhere in the parking lot, a car started and rumbled away. Voices drifted by outside of the door; she could hear an AC unit whirring from somewhere, although she couldn't identify the exact location—knew it wasn't from the Winchesters' room. Dean's weight shifted, readjusted, and settled; he made a sleepy noise to himself and changed the channel. Slid something out of… something, and oh—that was the sound of cards shuffling.

Bela rolled over onto her other side with as much dignity as she could muster given that the sheets were tangled, and propped her head up enough to see what Dean was doing. He grunted in acknowledgement of her attention, but did not slow down the rapid movements of his hands as they gracefully, deftly, shuffled the deck in his lap. She watched him in silence, impressed despite herself at the blur of his fingers, the blur of the cards. Real shuffles, she knew from experience, genuine riffles and piles.

"Five hand game of poker," he murmured, voice low and whispery, like he might wake Sam. Or like lights out symbolized indoor voices. He shuffled the cards once more, overhand this time, and dealt out the hands. Scooped the one out of his lap and showed her four aces. Bela didn't have to look up to see his relaxed smile. His shrug brought him closer. "Stacked it."

Bela didn't say anything to him, memorized as it were by the flashing cards. Dean, however, didn't seem to be looking for a response.

"Dad taught me that when I was six. Made me learn it over the summer, again and again and again when we were driving," he told her. Shuffled the deck properly, and did it again, faster. "Trick's in moving from one type of shuffle to the other with no one saying nothing. Used to practice on Sammy, even though he was too young to know shit."

The mention of his brother prompted Dean to lean across the distance between their two beds in order to pointlessly adjust his brother's blankets once more, even though Bela did not think Sam had so much as moved.

"Can you false deal?" she asked, and God help her, but she was using indoor voices too.

Dean demonstrated for her, a second deal, once so smoothly that she would never have guessed it was crooked, and then again so that she could see the second card concealed by the first.

"Learnt that when I was nine. I'll admit, a little harder. Can't have the crease, see. Hard to train your fingers not to bend the cards that way, but Sammy got it right off. Five years old and a real talent for it. Actually friggin' cried when he got it right and found out it was dodgy, big girl."

And a bottom deal, just to be thorough, demonstrated with the same pattern of quick and then slow.

"I could teach you, but…" Dean yawned and shrugged; flicked off the TV and launched the remote somewhere into the darkness. Groped around for a spot on the night table to rest the cards. "Just gonna close my eyes and rest. Least the damn curse lets me _rest_, even if I can't catch even one friggin' second of shut eye. Can't be any longer than an hour or two now."

Bela rolled over fast before they ended up face to face, but Dean did not oblige her prudish panic by putting his back towards her. Instead, he remained laying flat, elbow resting lightly against her back, and legs crossed. Minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow, and then:

"Thanks, Bela. Four days' a real long time to get stuck living inside your head. So quiet around here you'll go crazy."

And she heard it somewhere in his tone, the irritation, the unfairness, of losing four days of Sam. Thought for the first time all night how four days might be an eternity to a man who could count his remaining days in a matter of months, and inched surreptitiously closer to the warmth of his body. She wanted to ask him what he knew about Ruby; what he knew about Sam's efforts to help him, but couldn't bring herself to voice it. Didn't want to chance having him _stop_ it, and she was smart enough to guess that Sam wanted secrecy. But _months_--

As though he sensed her inner turmoil, Dean lifted his hand and placed it against her hip. Its weight was warm, solid; comforting. _Real_ and so very much the friendliest touch Bela had had in ages that her eyes burned and her throat clogged. It wasn't an advance at all, and that, all of a sudden, made the world of difference. His thumb snagged the belt loop in her pants and stayed there, rubbing out a soothing pattern.

"I always knew I was gonna die young," Dean told the darkness of the room, like he meant it as a comfort to her, this girl he supposedly did not like. "Makes no difference to me. Blaze of glory, right? I'm going to be the next James Dean."

Her voice sounded funny when she whispered, "You're going to go to Hell for Sam."

"Damned good reason." And the bastard laughed at himself. _Damned_.

"The biggest baddie of them all is going to get you." She wasn't sure why she said it, especially in such a matter of fact tone.

Bela felt Dean's smile. "But it's cool, right? The devil? Friggin' sucks to be killed by something smaller. Might as well lose to the best."

"Might as well go down fighting," she snapped, into her pillow.

If Dean heard her, he said nothing. Rolled over onto his side and tugged her ever so slightly closer, so that his thumb could leave her belt loop and his whole hand could rest against her stomach. She went stiff as a board, completely rigid, but Dean's touch didn't leave, and she was forced to relax eventually. The warmth emanating from his body and the comforter lulled her, and Bela was very nearly asleep when Dean spoke again.

"How do you know, Bela? About everything." Poked her right above the hip, in the fleshy part she was embarrassed by. "Good girl like you shoulda been. How the hell do you know about monsters? You tell me this time."

Perhaps it was the warmth, perhaps it was all the time she'd spent with Dean that evening. Perhaps it was her own sleepiness loosening her tongue, or the fact that he could literally take her secret to the grave. Perhaps it was the fact that it wasn't much of a secret, anyway.

"My father was a hunter," she whispered, like it was a forbidden story. It came out in a whoosh of breath, and she couldn't open her eyes after saying it. "I always knew."

Dean didn't say anything, but his grip on her stomach slackened. His silence, however, spoke volumes. _Your daddy was a friggin' hunter and this is how you honour his memory?_. Dean's silence was cold, but his hand did not leave her stomach. It was a mixed message; a confused signal. She could feel his consternation.

At long last, all Dean said was, "Was?"

In Bela's mind's eye, she almost saw it. It took considerable control to block the image—her mother's blood, and Bela's favourite dolly with her eyes gouged out—but she managed by biting her lip and scooting infinitesimally away from Dean. Managed because, when it came to repressing, she had considerable practice.

"I was nine. I don't really remember him much, so there's no need to get all sentimental on me, do you hear? He was never really around, always off after something or another, and I don't want to talk about it, not really." She ended on a huff. Felt too hot.

"I know what it's like," Dean admitted, although doing so sounded almost painful. "Having a hunter for a dad."

He closed the gap between them, reclaimed the inch or two she'd moved out of, and found her stomach with his hand again. Behind her, he felt stiff now, uncomfortable with her, and it rankled for reasons she didn't want to go into. Made her almost sad.

"I don't understand you, Bela," he whispered hoarsely into her hair, "and, Christ, I don't have the damned time to start trying."

She sighed; smashed her palm into her face. "I never asked you to be my friend, Dean."

His own sigh said _yes, you did_, but out loud he replied, "We're cool, Bela. Whatever we are, we're cool."

She wanted to ask if he was sorry he didn't have the time, but she was so sleepy—although probably nowhere near as tired as he was. Sighing again, louder this time, she hunkered down underneath the covers and relaxed into the comfort of his touch. She was nodding off in no time, scratchiness of the pillowcase long forgotten, and the last conscious thought Bela had was a good luck plea for Sam.

Save your brother, Sam, she thought, eyes heavy and head groggy. Cheat that devil right out of your brother. She was glad the alarm clock wasn't the ticking kind, but Bela imagined she could hear it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part T****hree**

Bela awoke to sunlight glinting through cheap drapes, reflecting off the fingerprinted screen of the television directly into her eyes. She grumbled to herself and attempted to bury her face deeper into her pillow; snuggled backwards into the warm and comforting form behind her. This form grumbled too and tightened its grip on her waist, sleepily shoving its face into her hair and letting out a massive, entirely impressive snore.

Bela Talbot had four realizations all at once, if a little belatedly. Firstly, her drapes were not cheap. Secondly, the pillow that she was nestled into was scratchy and lump ridden and she surely did not own anything like _that_ either. Thirdly, she had fallen asleep in her bra; could feel the under wire digging somewhat painfully into the side of her chest. Fourthly, Bela did not generally sleep next to things that were warm and comforting, cat aside, or things that emitted such dreadful noises. This was the most important fact of all: Bela generally did not sleep next to things that were most decidedly male (hardy-har-har, quiet in the peanut gallery).

She sat up—woke up—at lightning speed, tangling herself in her trousers and his limbs and the horrible awful faded red comforter that she had forgotten about. Stared down her nose in surprise at Dean Winchester, whose arm fell listlessly from her waist with her movement to land with a soft thump against the mattress.

Oh God. Dean bloody Winchester.

Mind agog, Bela gawked at the man sleeping by her side. He was still snoring, quite unabashedly, and his face had scrunched up in protest over the sudden lack of contact. His hair was rumpled, and he had pillow creases on his right cheek. His mouth was open, and she felt a sudden urge to giggle before—

Her heart plummeted to her stomach and flip-flopped abruptly. Bela swallowed hard, wondered what time it was, and seriously considered fucking everything in order to cuddle in for a few seconds more. Or… something. Feeling extremely confused, she raised her hand, hovering her fingers over Dean's cheek.

_First time, last time, no time_…

"Wouldn't touch him if I were you," a voice intoned dryly from the next bed. "Dean wakes up fighting. He'll kill you before you even know he's awake. Trust me, I know."

Bela jumped to high heaven, or would have anyway if she was anyone else. The blush she couldn't manage to control in time, and _God_, she had forgotten all about Dean's stupid cursed—or apparently recently uncursed—brother.

Came up fighting herself.

"Well well well, Sam, don't you look refreshed this morning!" she singsonged, smiling widely at the younger Winchester. Hoped she didn't have pillow creases too. Oh, the lack of dignity! "And yet, you couldn't have slept more than… oh, four days?"

It wasn't even a lie, she reflected. Sam did indeed look well rested. He was dressed and showered, and had even managed to find himself some breakfast—or was it lunch—which he was currently consuming with glorious abandon. Well, not really. He was currently peering at her over top of his fork, all suspicion and confusion.

"Dean and I got married while you were out," she informed him, forcing her smile. He still looked baffled, and she couldn't blame him. Not exactly. "I ran into him here, and we got a little drunk. Quickie Vegas wedding, you know how it goes." In bloody Montana. "Sorry you couldn't make it. We tried to wake you."

Sam blinked at her like she was speaking in tongues, which… okay, fine. He started to say something about a list of life goals, before cutting himself off with a shake of his head. Took another bite of whatever he was eating, and regarded her, expression drier than the desert.

"More like you're here trying to score a deal for the sandman's sand, and Dean was ready to climb the walls here by himself. You went to a local haunt for information, and Dean went to a local haunt to get drunk. Neither one of you can control how much you irritate the other, which led to a somewhat predictable round of banter, followed by an inexplicable urge not to part. It's so cute, I could just vomit." Sam paused to examine his cuticle. "Maybe you even knew he was here. Maybe he suspected you'd come. Either way… highly doubt you're my brand new sister-in-law."

And Bela blinked at him. Took a moment to regain her composure, which she blamed on sleepiness. Rather coldly, she replied, "I do see why they sent you to Stanford, brainiac that you are."

Sam grunted at her around his mouthful of food, which Bela thought was distinctly Dean-like, and they regarded each other for a moment in wary silence. Sam, she supposed, looked a bit bombarded by her presence, and she found herself wondering what his first thought upon waking had been. The whole situation was making her strangely giddy, and she got out of bed to cover it up. In his sleep, Dean frowned at the movement. Promptly rolled onto her half of the bed, sprawled and utterly relaxed.

Bela had to get away. Panic rising, she sent Sam a parting glare for good measure and made her way—great distance that it was—to the bathroom.

She found her nylons where she had left them, balled in a towel underneath the sink. Took off her trousers and put them back on, frowning at the discomfort caused by the control top. A glance in the mirror confirmed that she was hopelessly wrinkled, irreversibly bedraggled, and she would have sold her soul—oh, Lord, she hadn't meant to think that—in a second for a shower. And that was just the kind of girl she was, wasn't it? Who needed to sell their soul for important things, and… just _ugh_.

Splashing water on her face helped Bela feel a little bit more like herself. She had eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes and she scrubbed at it hard with her knuckle. Tried to fix her hair with her fingers, and, after a brief search through Sam and Dean's things for a brush, gave up all hope of looking presentable. Steeled herself, and returned to the main room.

Sam had finished eating, and was crouched on the other side of his bed, rifling through his duffle bag. He looked up at the sound of her approach and straightened, some kind of notebook tightly grasped in his hands.

"I can take you back to your car," he offered. "Dean might be out for a while."

Like she cared. The urge to giggle was back, but she covered it by pushing her hand through her hair. Glanced back at Dean, asleep on his bed, and then at Sam, who was watching her watch Dean with an astuteness she did not like. God, Sam made her nervous.

She stood still as Sam found Dean's car keys, murmuring to himself about his own possible murder, and stared at him with wide eyes when he opened the door. Over his shoulder, she could see the Impala, gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight. Behind her shoulder, she could still hear Dean snoring. Nerves turned her stomach, and she found herself unexpectedly frozen to the spot, but then Sam was looking at her funny and—

One last quick look at Dean was all she took. All she had time to take.

Sam held the door of the car open for her, and she hauled her wrinkled self inside with as much dignity as she could muster. Dean's bloody cock rock music nearly blew their ears off when Sam turned the key in the ignition; Sam cranked down the dial with a wry grimace.

After that, they drove in silence. Bela wished the scenery outside of her window was at all interesting, but all they passed was run down and ugly. She thought of the car ride back to Queens with dread. Should have flown, she thought grumpily.

"You know, I don't blame you for anything," began Sam conversationally, like he thought that that was what was forcing her silence… which, admittedly, was partly true. She noticed irritably that he was wearing his most comforting expression. All _confide in me, Bela_. She felt a rather uncharitable urge to give him nothing but bullshit.

Instead, Bela tipped her chin up, and defensively told the passing scenery, "I didn't sleep with your brother, Sam."

Sam snorted, and Bela feared she had misstepped. "I didn't really think you did. Thought Dean might have a little more consideration than…" A vague hand motion, which she took as a reminder that Sam had been in the other bed. Right bloody there. And then continued with, "You know. Even he isn't that big of a pig."

"He does seem more like a sock on the door kind of guy," she admitted. And, cautiously, "What do you not blame me for then?"

A shrug and a pause, like Sam was considering how to word it. "Wanting to get to know him. I mean, don't get me wrong, not exactly your biggest fan here. But I don't blame you. Dean's kind of a pretty awesome guy."

"Well." Oo-kay then… "Good to know."

But Sam wasn't finished. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His face was hard, set and determined.

"I've done some research on you, Bela," he told her, tone low.

Shivers raced down Bela's spine, and she grimaced to herself before angling to face Sam dead on. She smiled at him, and let him see the threat there. "Good for you. Planning on using it against me? I thought you needed my help."

"Easy," he replied, laughing testily. "I do… hell, I'd take just about _anybody's_ help at this point. I just thought I'd check and see how legit you were and--"

"And what? What exactly is the point of this pleasant little chit chat?"

"I don't care." His jaw was set again, and she thought it funny how little he resembled his brother. "That's all: I don't care. I can even understand it, to a point. We have to make decisions every day that other people can't even imagine and--"

"I know about Ruby."

That shut him right up. He almost swerved into the other lane, he looked at her so quickly. "Did you tell Dean?"

Smiled innocently. "Tell Dean what?"

"That I've… I promised I wouldn't see her anymore." A rare moment of complete honesty.

She made her smile slightly mocking in response. "Did _you_ tell Dean?"

Sam didn't have to ask what about. "Hell no. I don't think you're genuinely harmful, Bela. If I thought you were an actual danger to my brother, it would be another thing entirely. You're selfish, sure, and you're completely driven by financial gain, but for whatever reason, Dean doesn't seem to hate spending time with you. Who am I to begrudge him anything now?"

Bela pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned back against the seat of the Impala, relaxing minutely. "I didn't tell Dean anything about anything. I figured he might try to stop it, so I thought not to give him the chance."

Sam nodded at her, like it was a truce, and reached into the back of the car, steering with his knee. He tossed her the notebook from the motel.

"That's all the research I've got so far. Take it with you and give it a read through, will you please? I'll come by for it soon. I've mentioned some specific items in there, nothing I think will be a real help, but if _you_ think they will be…"

Bela nodded back, succinctly. "I'll look into it, Sam." Placed the notebook neatly onto her lap.

"This it?" Sam motioned out the window.

The Crown was even more depressing by daylight. She nodded, happy to see that her car was still in the parking lot.

"Thanks for the ride," she said, slamming the door behind her. The Impala's tires squealed as it rolled out of the parking lot.

For a moment, Bela hugged the notebook to her chest and closed her eyes. Remembered the feel of Dean's hand when it touched her, the look on his face when he slept. Thought hard about the contents of the notebook, like she could will one thing in there to be correct, and easy to access. _Let Sam do it_, she thought. _Let there be time_.

When she opened her eyes, the parking lot was unchanged before her. The sun was warm on the top of her head, and was glinting brightly off of her windshield. A small breeze stirred her hair, and reminded her of the fact that she didn't have a brush. Groaning, she made her way over to the car.

All that was left of Dean's time was two months. No time at all, now. Not really.

* * *

Bela had one picture of her parents, and one picture only. After reading through Sam's notebook, she went to her bedroom and hunted it out from behind the odds and ends on her counter. Sank to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and simply stared at their faces through the glass.

Walter and Sarah Talbot, thirty three and thirty two respectively. A rare evening alone, a rare evening with Walter _home_, and they were both beaming at the camera for all they were worth. Sarah, who Bela always remembered as being absolutely world weary, looked almost carefree, for the wife of a hunter.

Beside her, Sam's notebook was an utter waste of time. She had been bewildered and then so very disappointed to find that all he had managed to come up with were increasingly desperate attempts at an answer that just didn't exist. Half of the items he mentioned she was fairly certain weren't even technically real; the others were vague mentions, with half leads. A whole bloody notebook full of bloody _nothing_, save for the fact that Sam wasn't giving up. It was a thought that counts kind of book, and Bela was so frustrated—

Gently, she uncurled herself enough to trace the outlines of her parents. Wished for the hundredth time that she was in the picture, but the only ones she had of herself were solo pictures, or pictures from After, when she had gone to live with her grandmother. Things lost and things destroyed…

She could feel the corner of Sam's notebook pressing into her thigh.

"Walter and Sarah Talbot. Thirty three and thirty two. Seven months to live," she murmured, and there was a lump in her throat that felt unfamiliar and strange. Bela Talbot was not exactly a crier. Then, "Dean Winchester. Twenty nine. Two months to live."

Bela knew hunters, and in her experience, they always died young. And horridly.

Her throat constricted painfully, and began to burn. Bela pulled her knees closer to her chest and stared hard at her parents, trying to hold it all together. Managed, almost, until her cat curiously made his way in her direction and bumped against her ankle expectantly with his head. It was too much affection—too much like comfort—and she wrenched her eyes shut, as though that could stop the horrible reality that was Bela Talbot crying.

* * *

Dean Winchester sent her a postcard that Bela could only assume he'd bought in a porn shop somewhere. It certainly wasn't appropriate _tourist_ material.

Little known fact, but Bela didn't really get mail of the interesting variety—unless she was expecting a package, a purchase, but she wasn't and this was different anyway. She left it on the counter, naked woman side up, when she made herself some tea; pretended to be offended by it for show when she went to feed her cat. She let it sit for almost half an hour before curiosity got to her.

Shooing her cat off of her spot on the couch, Bela peered at the front side, still giddy enough at the prospect of real live _personal_ mail to attempt to absorb every detail. Then, biting her lip, she flipped it over.

Dean had neat no nonsense writing, and the words weren't big enough to be spelt wrong, therefore giving her absolutely no easy ammo for later on. A quick simple message, nothing more. It read:

_Leaving before I wake up… real classy there, Bela. Your loss, of course. I have since replaced you with this blonde beauty. Would talk more but hot sex awaits._

He had signed it simply with his initials.

"Lovely, Dean," she said to herself, bouncing the postcard on her knee.

She placed it on her coffee table and went for a shower. Came back and was unhappy with its location, but couldn't think of what to do with it that was any better. Got ready for bed, and dreamed up the fridge.

Bela stuck it on with a magnet shaped like a cat, naked woman side down so that she could avoid seeing Miss My-Fake-Boobs-Rival-Pamela-Anderson's every single bloody time she opened the door. Shook her head on her way to bed, and fell asleep smiling.

* * *

Sam Winchester came five days after his brother's postcard.

He tried to be nice, Bela got that. He even _knocked_, after ringing the buzzer, which was more than Bela could ever say about Dean. He seemed to be operating under the idea that Bela _meant_ something, which she wasn't sure about and quite honestly didn't like to think about, and at the very least deserved his more proper manners. Didn't even mention the gunshot of days gone by either… finally.

"Where's Dean?" she asked as he settled himself on one of her kitchen chairs.

She had left the notebook in her bedroom, and went to retrieve it, listening for Sam's answer.

"We're on a hunt," he called after her retreating back. "Dean's… busy."

Dean had been manipulated away, she thought, before thinking it was mighty convenient that they were on a hunt in her area period. _Planned_. But that was Sam, she supposed, always thinking.

Remembered abruptly about the postcard on her fridge and scurried back, distracting Sam with his notebook before he could notice anything else.

Sam's face fell when he observed the expression on hers. He fiddled with the worn edges of the pages, and heaved a mighty sigh. Dean would have mocked him for his angst—well, Dean more likely would have been kicking his arse for the visit—and Bela considered it herself, to ease the tension. To mock or to offer coffee? She felt useless in the face of his disappointment, and shifty.

"I knew it was all crap when I gave it to you," he told her, flinging it out of his reach.

"I know." And she had… sort of.

"Just…" A grunt of frustration, and he hid his face in his hands. "What the hell am I supposed to _do_, Bela? I can't just let him go to Hell. He's counting on me."

The topic made her antsy. The muscles along her spine tightened and she folded and then unfolded her hands. Separated herself from the situation, because she still couldn't do it. Not Dean. Made no sense, when he was so real and alive and _vibrant_… was going to be fighting mad if he found out about any of this. Couldn't reconcile that with someone bound for Hell, because… because she just couldn't. She felt like someone was squeezing her lungs.

"You might have to." She had to force it out, one big whoosh of breath straight from her diaphragm. She thought at first that Sam missed it entirely, and she hadn't said it to be cruel... just honest. The idea of having to repeat it chilled her, but Sam looked up; met her gaze with weary eyes.

"No." Just _no_. "There's something. There has to _be_ something. There's always something."

She thought of Dean's hand on her stomach; of the soft way he spoke when he was exhausted and too tired to keep his guard up. _Dead_. The lump in her throat was back, but she swallowed resolutely. Did not want Sam to see it.

"The demon wants him bad, Sam." Her voice was soft, and she had the strangest urge to pat his hand.

Sam scowled at her, a look that said _yeah well, I want him more_. He grabbed his notebook up again and flipped through it, all determination.

"No one really mentions _Hell_ anywhere," he told her offhandedly, talking to himself more than to Bela. Sighing, she sat down across from him. "That's the problem. Escaping from there isn't really a Christian belief. It's all about Hades, and the underworld. But that's not necessarily a bad thing." Drummed his fingers on the paper. "Same idea, sort of. Just older. The answer's out there, it's just a matter of finding it."

And he _believed_ it, Bela saw with some amount of surprise. Sam was weary, sure, and worried, but she knew for no real reason in that moment that Sam had coped with the situation thus far because he absolutely did not believe he was going to lose his brother. For a little while maybe; nothing more than a brief separation. It struck Bela as arrogance, this; then, she could respect that. Wondered offhandedly what Dean believed.

And so she asked, like she and Sam were all buddy buddy. Like she had a right to know _anything_ about Dean, at all. "How's he doing?"

Sam shrugged, clearly brooding to himself. "How is Dean doing? _Really_ well actually." His lip twisted into something resembling a sneer, and Bela guessed at a great deal of suppressed anger. "He went house hunting yesterday. Been at it all week online apparently. He printed me off a nice long list of appropriate properties that I should really look into once this whole mess is over. He was going to job hunt for me, if you can believe it. Like any of that shit is important."

_Life goes on, Sammy_. Practical, Dean was, if completely fatalistic. Material goods, Bela got. Propping her chin on her hand, she gazed around her flat, wondering what she would do if she was preparing for her own death. Will it to her cat, perhaps. _Sell it and go home_. But it was an unbidden thought, somewhat of a surprise.

"I need to get rid of him," Sam was saying, or ranting really. The Winchesters, a chatty bunch. So sick of one another's company that Bela thought that either one of them would rant to anyone. "I could really work at this if he wasn't hovering. Wanna know something horrible? I wish he had gone comatose over that damned sandman. I could have used the four days."

The urge to rebuke Sam for his sentiment was another unbidden thought but Bela let it go. Further proof of how much Sam believed he could stop it, if he tried hard enough. And what were four days out of a lifetime, if that lifetime wasn't expiring in a month and a half? Abruptly, Bela didn't want to talk about any of it anymore.

"I'm not a therapist, Sam," she told him, leaning back in her chair. "At least not for _free_."

A look flittered across Sam's face too quickly for Bela to interpret, but she guessed that it might have been disgust. Or perhaps surprise. Maybe he had forgotten who he was dealing with; thought that seeing her all cozied up with Dean implied some sort of… what? Some sort of immunity? Bela wrinkled her nose primly. She had not come as far as she had by giving out immunity.

He wanted to say something else--_Would you rather I go to Ruby?_--but he shook his head and scowled at her again. "What _can_ you do for me, Bela?"

Bela shrugged; examined a fingernail. "From where I'm standing, I've done a fair bit for you and your brother without charge."

"From where I'm standing, looks like you're benefiting too. I've never seen _anyone_ here, Bela," Sam told her, harshly. "Your phone never rings. Seems to me that Dean and I are all you've got for companionship." A shrug, while Bela fought not to wince. "And I know your past isn't much to brag about. Been lonely, hasn't it, Bela? Either way, you can help me with _that_."

He gestured rather abruptly at the board on her wall, with which she contacted spirits.

Bela raised an eyebrow in chagrined surprise. "I did already try that, you know." And she was strangely offended by the implication that she hadn't, almost more so than by his words.

Sam nodded, and then shrugged himself, seeming to ease up a bit. "I know. But maybe together…?"

And what did Bela have to lose? Sighing, she stood up and unhooked the board from the wall. Walked to the table, and laid it flat. Sam joined her after a moment, looking rather put out, and waited for Bela to set it up. She suspected this wasn't his usual forte.

Well, it was Bela's. Placing the planchette flat on the board, she lined up her fingers and gestured for Sam to come closer. She thought perhaps it was in her head, but she felt the familiar churning of energy run up her arms, and closed her eyes against it. Contacting spirits was not something she _liked_, but she steeled herself mentally to block out any unnecessary intrusions and waited. Sam was hesitating beside her.

"Dean would just die," he grumbled.

Through her teeth, she hissed, "Dean is going to die regardless."

"Not on my watch." And the _determination_.

She heard the shuffling of clothing as Sam moved closer. He released a harsh exhalation near her head, and then his fingers were on the planchette too. At first, nothing felt different to Bela—-as it never had, when she'd used the board with anyone else. The thrumming of energy continued to run up and down her arms, tingling her fingers--_It's getting ready to talk to you_, was what her grandmother had said—but there wasn't anything at all remarkable about using the board with Sam.

And then, just like that, there _was_. The pleasant spirit readying tingles magnified until they felt more like electrical shocks, and the thrumming of energy changed to an all out clamor. Voices too, cacophony in her head and all around her, before they'd even _asked_ the damn thing anything. Screaming for Sam, screaming for Dean; Bela wanted to pull her hands away.

She had heard about Sam; of course she had. Chosen one, and so forth, but she had never really _thought_ about it. The idea of Sam as the anti-Christ seemed utterly ridiculous, and did still. Undeniably though, there was something—some sort of _power_. She clenched her eyes shut tighter, trying to ignore the energy—an impossible task, really.

"Ask it something," she growled, annoyed and a bit shocked by the whole thing.

Sam cleared his throat. "Is there anyone there who has any relevant information to help my brother Dean?"

Bela felt a jolt, and had to fight the urge to open her eyes. It was taking all of her concentration to block her mind to probing spiritual fingers, to keep herself separate. She didn't have to watch to see the planchette move, and the voices screaming through Sam's energy and hers all started to chant the same thing in eerie tandem—_Dean, Dean, Dean_…

* * *

Sometimes at night Bela thought about Dean. Curled underneath the warmth of her covers with her cat purring lazily at her feet mostly. She knew there were countless reasons _not_ to think of him: he was a hunter, he had some sort of co-dependent relationship happening with his brother, he was rather crass, he was _dying_. But there were countless reasons _to_ think about him too.

Bela Talbot had been an imaginative child. Sam had hit the nail right on the head, as it were: she had always been lonely. The idea of making friends with her peers had always struck her as completely ridiculous. They didn't know a thing about anything she had ever gone through—daughter of a hunter, orphan of a hunter. Her imagination had amused her grandmother when she was little and had first gone to live with her; over time, Bela had learned to ignore flights of fancy in favour of being overly analytical, and extremely coldly practical.

At night though. Alone. She was well aware she didn't really know Dean Winchester—she had met him what? Ten times?—but he was damned better to fantasize about than the college student who had delivered her pizza a few weeks ago. And they were stupid fantasies too, the kind that made her cringe in the dark with guilt, like she was scrawling _Bela Winchester_ on a napkin or something (_Isabela Winchester? Isabela Talbot-Winchester_, and—wait! No!).

Better fantasies, of him riding up in his Impala, with promises of broken deals whispered on his lips. Stolen kisses, if that was what she was in the mood for. _Companionship_ really, because Bela had never once met anyone more isolated than Dean Winchester. Dean and, admittedly, herself.

She didn't think much beyond that. If—and it was a big _if_--anything was possible, there was much about Dean that Bela was not sure she could handle. Waiting for him to overcome his disgust of her occupation was a pretty big one; then, she had her reasons for being disgusted by his as well. They were not _exactly_ well suited, and she knew it, but then there was nothing wrong with a passing thought here and there.

Nothing wrong with thinking secrets in the dark.

* * *

When it came to cheer up music, Bela was pretty sure Cher topped the list. The general doom and gloom nature of her thoughts lately was getting to be a bit much—giving Bela grey hairs, even!—but she knew she could always count on really loud music to make her smile.

The song of the day was _If I Could Turn Back Time_, a remix she'd picked up somewhere or another over the years. Bela had the curtains drawn, and was more or less really giving the song her best as she waltzed through her flat, clad in a towel and her fluffiest, most comfortable slippers. Her cat had abandoned her long ago, tail puffed out over the sheer volume of her music. She was completely alone and completely satisfied, mouth watering at the thought of the wine she had chilling for herself in the kitchen. Quick run to the laundry room for her housecoat (beautiful, she knew!), blow dry of her hair, and Bela Talbot was relaxing… baby. No buyers, no sellers, no demons, no boys bound for Hell, no nothing, except:

"Too strong to tell you I was sorry!" she sang, flinging her arms open wide and dancing down the hall. "Too strong to tell you I was wrong! I knew that I was blind and--"

And there was someone in her kitchen.

Skidding to a halt was hard in her slippers, but she managed it. She froze for a half of a second, watching the shadow jump along her wall as the person in her kitchen did whatever it was doing, and then she began to back up as soundlessly as possible. Bela Talbot was nothing if not armed, and she had a gun taped in the linen closet, five steps back at most.

Making her voice loud, clear, and utterly unaffected, Bela continued with, "If I could turn back time…" Inside the closet door and—aha! There on the wall. Her fingers closed around cold steel, and she was back down the hall, edging towards her kitchen. "I'd take back those words that would hurt you, and you'd stay!"

Almost there now. She cocked the gun, singing loudly to cover the _click_, and rushed around the corner, weapon raised. "What do you think you're doing—oh, you."

Dean Winchester sat at her island, casually picking through the bowl of candy she had placed there. He dropped the one he'd been about to eat, laughed when he saw her, and mock held up his hands.

"Charming rendition," he told her, grinning. And, under his breath, "Of absolute _crap_."

Bela glowered at him over her gun, even as her heart thudded oddly in her chest. The last time hadn't been _the_ last time then. Making sure to hold her glare, she put her gun down and made a move to run a hand through her hair. Her wet hair. Eyes popping wide, she glanced down to belatedly remember her towel clad self.

By then, Dean had noticed too. Popping a caramel in his mouth, he looked her over from head to toe, appraising and intent. Colour flushed her cheeks, and Bela would have been brassed off—really _fucking_ brassed off, honestly—at being thusly objectified, if there wasn't something different in the way Dean was looking at her. Something _new_. She held her ground then, toes curling in her slippers out of instinctive embarrassment, and thought that perhaps he looked a little too appreciative. A little too aware, truthfully; when he looked up, the familiar smirk was back in place.

Around his caramel, he said, "That's charming too. The outfit, or lack of one. Should stop by more unannounced, I'm starting to see."

Thank God she'd shaved her legs. "Should stop by announced for once, more like it," she snapped, turning on her heel to continue to her laundry room. "What's the reason this time? What else could you possibly _need_?!"

"Need? Baby, we're talking _want_." And he chuckled like he was the funniest thing ever born.

She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away.

Changing into her housecoat only made her feel frumpy, but she returned to the kitchen with her head held high. Her cat had reappeared, and was currently enjoying some Dean loving of his own. She watched him getting his ears stroked, quiet and contemplative.

Some minute noise must have given her away because Dean glanced up, ready as it were to explain exactly what he was doing there.

"Fucker took off," he told her with a shrug. "Fed me a bunch of crap about goodbyes I should be saying in private—about him getting in my way, if you can friggin' believe it. Told him he was full of shit, and he did that quiet broody thing he's so damned good at. Thought it was the end of it, but he's made himself scarce this morning. Even wrote me a very sweet little note."

Anger, Bela heard, and resignation too. It struck her as odd that Dean was not out looking for Sam, but then perhaps…

_No_, Dean couldn't have known, sitting in front of her without trying to stop it. Sam should have been careful enough—wouldn't want Dean getting in _his_ way, not the other way around. Time was running out and well… Dean looked _hurt_, didn't he. Time was running out and baby brother was heading for the hills.

"Tried tracking him," Dean was saying, speech garbled around his candy.

_Not very hard_, thought Bela, puzzled.

"I can't imagine why someone would want to get away from you," she said, but lightly so that he'd get that she was teasing.

Dean made a face at her. "He's been going on for a while now about private crap he wants me to deal with. I guess I wasn't getting the hint. Told me it was what he wanted more than anything…"

His frequent delays were getting on Bela's nerves. "What? He wanted what?"

"Me to settle things right. On my own." Like the words tasted strange in his mouth: _on my own_. Like there was no Dean without Sam. He looked uncomfortable in her kitchen, edgy. "Don't know how I'm going to bear it, personally. My fan club is going to be beside themselves."

Bela snorted, and watched Dean help himself to another candy, a jam filled one this time. It was a good idea, this ploy of Sam's. Bought him some time like he needed, gave Dean a chance to settle old scores without his influence just… in case. Manipulative wording, that was for sure--_My last wish, Dean_, good Lord—but then Sam knew what would work and what wouldn't. Not much that could make Dean leave his side and stay gone.

Although Bela still thought Dean was taking it too easily. Instinctively, she felt suspicious, and she had been too much on _her_ own not to rely on basic feelings. Crossing her arms, she regarded Dean warily.

"What does this have to do with me?"

Dean wasn't meeting her gaze anymore, staring steadfastly instead into the yellow eyes of her cat. He swallowed visibly—how he wasn't choking on the wad of candy in his cheek was beyond her—and ran his tongue along his teeth. Twisted his ring, before clearing his throat loudly.

"Do you always have to make things about you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Looked like he was reconsidering a thing or two, although she couldn't guess what.

Something wasn't right, she thought. There was a desperation about Dean that she hadn't noticed before, like he'd gotten up that morning and seen the ONE MONTH AND TWO WEEKS bulletin flashing outside of whatever cheap motel he was currently gracing with his presence. An odd energy to him, vibrating under the surface.

He quirked his mouth up. "You look like you want to say _Cristo_."

But it wasn't that. It was a very human panic that she was sensing, something very Dean normally kept hidden. Biting her lip, she swept his candy wrappers into her hand and made a fist around them. The foil crinkled; her cat's ear twitched.

If there was something wrong, Bela had time. A bit of time only, a tiny little sliver of it, but time all the same.

"If you're going to continue to randomly let yourself into my place, do _try_ not be such a pig," she said, but then Dean was talking too.

He met her gaze abruptly and, through a too fast candy-ridden garble, "Wanna go to Kansas?"

And Bela knew one thing: _on my own_ counted for shit, ten and a half months in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

"Explain to me," Dean said with a great deal of mock-patience, "why you need to pack a curler thing _and_ something that friggin' straightens your hair? Really. Explain the logic, Bela, because I don't get it."

Bela grit her teeth and tried hard to focus entirely on the scenery outside her window, which consisted mainly of trees frantically green in anticipation of full-blown summer. Tried to ignore the throbbing vein in Dean's forehead. God knew Bela was feeling rather twitchy herself.

Her suitcase, dumped rather abusively into the backseat after Dean absolutely positively could not rearrange his bloody arsenal in the trunk to accommodate her, slapped into the back of her seat each time the I-95 curved; that had become irritating miles before she'd even thought of the interstate. And furthermore…

The Impala was stuffy, and Bela thought she'd kill for a bit of a breeze. She'd wanted to roll down the window, but Dean had outlawed that just because. She wanted the radio too but, after raising the volume a few times to drown out her incredibly helpful directions, he had shut that off as well, slapping at her fingers every time she tried to make a go at the dial.

His mood had been slipping steadily ever since he had noticed that it was approaching three in the afternoon with their departure still being somewhat imminent and not already in the past; Bela's had been slipping since being locked in the car with him. Or since Dean had opened her suitcase right there in the middle of her bloody car pack to rearrange her things to his satisfaction—to try to compress her suitcase, was what he had called it—and had actually threatened to throw out her flat iron. Whichever.

Throw it out, she thought darkly, glaring at the optimistically coloured trees. Right in the fucking rubbish!

And Dean was not done his earlier rant either. Flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, he was the very picture of leisure when he continued with, "Explain to me why your suitcase is _pink._"

Bela had been ignoring him since they had merged onto the I-95, and she wasn't about to cave now. Except—

"Well, explain to _me_ how you find your ratty old duffel bag on a baggage carousel!"

His eyes flickered in her direction and his jaw twitched. "Explain to me what the hell I'm doing at an airport."

"Explain to me why your car doesn't have air conditioning!"

Yes, his jaw was definitely twitching. "Explain to me how you can fail to recognize that this is a classic 1967 beauty of a--"

"Explain to me why you keep starting sentences like that?" She rolled her eyes at the trees; felt his glower heat up the back of her head. "Jesus, Dean!"

He spluttered for a moment or two, and then, "You started it."

"What?!" She whipped her head around and glared at him. He in turn was glaring at the road, and she noticed his knuckles had gone strangely white. "I did not!"

"You did too! You mentioned airports, or something stupid like that."

"After you'd been rambling on forever!" She pitched her voice. "Oh, Bela, explain to me all of your different hairdos!"

"All of your different hairdos? Like I give a shit about your hair." Dean snorted. "Puh-lease."

"You did so, Dean." She sounded as petulant as a child, which only served to irritate her further.

"I so did not." He huffed, and for one blessed second his hand hovered near the radio dial. And then, "Just… just shut up."

Bela crossed her legs as best she could, and sneered at him. "Fine. You shut up too."

"Fine."

He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel again and actually tipped up his chair, like a bloody five year old. Bela glared daggers at his profile for a moment or two, before melodramatically slumping back into the time softened leather of the seat.

At this rate, they were not going to make it to Kansas alive.

Dean had thrown the map into the backseat in frustration somewhere back in Queens, and Bela undid her seatbelt to maneuver onto her knees. Dean watched her with poorly hidden interest and absolute rapt disapproval, scowling when her hip swung too close to his face.

"What are you doing _now_?" he growled, and she could feel him staring at her inelegantly hanging between seats. His shoved his hand awkwardly at her bum, trying to get her closer to her own side of the car—or fully over into the back, she couldn't tell. "Get your ass out of my face, woman! There are driving rules, you know. You can't just--"

"Dean? Do be quiet. I thought we weren't speaking to each other."

He grumbled something she didn't catch, and then, "We aren't. I'm not. Shut up."

Bela wanted to wiggle her aforementioned ass to piss him off further, but it was taking entirely too much concentration to balance her belly on the bucket seat while groping around underneath her suitcase for the poor forgotten map. She heard him loudly huff, and had to bite her lip not to smile. Oh, easily riled Dean.

Her fingers brushed against laminated paper at the exact moment she determined with one hundred percent accuracy that Dean was in fact trying to shove her head over heels into the back. She resisted the urge just barely to knee him somewhere unfortunate on the way back to her seat. Glared at him for one prim moment, and then ignored him entirely in favour of the map.

Dean had traced the route from Queens to Lawrence with a pencil; Bela thought that the map had had many routes traced and erased over time. She followed the winding grey line with her fingernail, counting states quietly beneath her breath.

This prompted Dean to say, "I can still hear you."

Bela rolled her eyes, slouching down to stretch her legs further. Dean sighed and made a noise that might have been a rueful chuckle; then, with a quick glance at the road, he reached down by her feet and came up with a battered white cardboard box. Dropped it on her lap. The cassette tapes she saw when she peered inside rattled at the abrupt contact.

"Might as well pick something." His tone sounded rueful too, like he'd had enough and was offering a truce. "_Anything_ is better than your jabbering."

Bela was prepared for a truce too, and so she let that one slide. Manfully didn't even make a crack about cassette tapes. Sighing herself, she flipped through the plastic cases, browsing his collection. Found one that interested her forgotten at the bottom.

"Bruce Springsteen," she announced, voice rich with approval.

Dean's brows shot up with surprise, and he let go of the wheel with one hand to grab the tape from hers. Looked at it, and shrugged, before popping it into the tape deck.

"For the record," he said, "this isn't mine."

Bela shrugged because she absolutely did not care. The opening strains filtered happily throughout the Impala, and she smiled.

"Finally!"

Dean smirked, and reached to turn up the volume. Casting her a sideways glance, he echoed, "Finally."

* * *

Dean Winchester, Bela observed somewhere along the I-76, was deceptively quiet. She was used to seeing him in fits and starts, quick little moments punctuated by a sarcastic staccato, and a hurried goodbye—if goodbye was said at all. Being stuck in a car with him was an illuminating experience.

She'd been watching him surreptitiously and then not so surreptitiously for the last hour or so, once the whirring scenery outside of her window had lost its monotonous appeal. He had watched the road during the surreptitious bit; once he was aware of her attention, he darted his own glances back and forth, uncomfortable under her blatant scrutiny. Had fired off a sarcastic, "Like what you see?" coupled with a cheeky smile, but that had been back near the Harrisburg exit, and was, therefore, quite a while ago.

In fact, she had been staring off and on for so long that Dean seemed to have forgotten her observation, or at the very least had stopped caring. Bela felt half asleep anyway, with her head cushioned by the not-so-terribly-cushioning glass window and her body angled in his direction as much as she could without putting her feet up onto his precious upholstery. Not because she cared about facing Dean, see, but because it was more comfortable this way, on her neck. Or something like that. She blinked at him, heavy lidded, and pretended not to see the quick corner-of-his-eyes glance he shot at her.

Now that the hustle and bustle of leaving her flat was behind her, Bela felt confused and more than a little petulant at being dragged out on a spur of the moment road trip with someone who didn't even want to talk. At all. Period. She felt uncomfortable over how Dean had said jump, and she, pink suitcase in hand, had said how high. It _implied_ things, didn't it; implied things that she had no business implying towards someone who was going to be dead soon. And someone who was a hunter. Reverse those two facts, maybe.

The song on the radio changed to a classic Bela did not know, and Dean started to hum it underneath his breath, happiness appearing subtly all over his face. She smashed her face harder against the window in a fruitless bid to get comfortable, and watched the tiny quirk of Dean's lips, feeling warm inside underneath all that petulant anger despite herself.

But then it implied things about Dean too, didn't it. She didn't have to be all alone on this implying train. Dean had decided to spend time with her of his own accord, and time that was unarguably starting to be quite valuable to him too. If he was silent, she was starting to think that maybe he was just a quiet kind of guy and—and, well clearly he didn't have a friend to speak of if he was knocking down her door. He didn't even _like_ her, supposedly.

Didn't even like her like she didn't even like him. She smiled against the cool glass; yawned.

Bela would ask him, of course. It wasn't in her nature to play with such delicacy, but she knew not to come right out with it. Thought that would guarantee her nothing but a sarcastically flippant answer, and not the truth at all. The drive to Kansas and back would take almost a week, stops assumed, and that was plenty of time to get into Dean's head. Plenty of time to come up with a way of doing it that wasn't a smack in the head and a, "Hey, baby, what exactly do you think you're doing with me?"

Watching him watch the road, Bela realized with an odd start that this was the happiest she'd ever seen Dean… period. A good song on the radio, miles behind him, and more before him… He was worried about Sam, she knew, and the weight on his shoulders must have been something else but he looked… at peace, she decided. Content. A simple happiness, but happiness all the same.

He flicked his gaze at her again, lips turning up into a smirk. "I look pretty awesome, don't I," he inquired, angling his head this way and that. "It's the jacket. Been told by more than one lovely lady that the chicks dig it."

Even though the jacket did indeed suit Dean nicely, Bela snorted and said, "Lovely _blind_ ladies maybe."

Dean took his eyes off the road for a moment, making Bela endure a very slow head to toe appraisal. Glancing back at the road, he said, "Says the crazy person wearing friggin' hooker heels on a road trip."

Bela gasped and glanced down at her feet. "These are not bloody hooker shoes! These are Steve Madden!"

The expression on his face was a clear and impossible to misinterpret _huh_. "Who?" he questioned, not sounding like he particularly cared. "Some trendy nut job clothing the young and the bitchy?"

Dean's one liner for the next one hundred miles, Bela figured. Rolling her eyes, she tried to get comfortable on the seat. Her legs were cramping up, and all of the monotonous driving was getting to be a bit much. Truth be told, she was leaning towards car sick. Scrunching her forehead, she closed her eyes, ignoring Dean's parting shot completely.

"Hey, look!" he chortled, "They match your suitcase."

* * *

Somewhere between the I-this and the I-that, Bela must have dozed off. It was the lack of motion that disturbed her, the absence of the Impala's steady purr; that, and Dean's hand, which issued a solid smack against her bum—or her hip, more accurately. She came to with a start, cheek smashed into cold glass and mouth full of hair. Spluttered and spit her way to an upright position.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart," Dean drawled, taking the keys out of the ignition.

"Why are we stopping?" she croaked, which actually meant _why the hell did you wake me, you absolute fucker_. Blinking to clear her eyes, she glanced out the window and discovered that they were in the parking lot of a rather rundown gas station in… some state between here and there. Her neck had a crick and she groaned around the mother of all yawns. It was dark outside now, and that wasn't exactly helping matters. Sleepily, she stared at the flickering streetlamps trying their hardest to illuminate the place.

"Because I feel like shit warmed over," Dean told her, all elegance. She noticed that his eyes looked a bit sandy too. "Because I have to take a piss, because I'm starving, because I don't want to drive anymore… take your pick, Bela."

"Me, me, me," she said, pushing her palm into her forehead. And then, "Where _are_ we?"

Dean's smile was wry. "Dunno. You're sitting on the map. Haven't had a clear idea in a helluva long time."

She was too. Grimacing, she dug it out from underneath her bum and handed it over. Dean took it from her and tossed it into the backseat, where it landed with a dull thud against her suitcase—which, for the record, was still sharply angled into her seat.

"Kidding. I _can_ navigate. We're in Wheeler. Quick stop for some grub, and we'll motor on out." He gave her an appraising glare, but he didn't actually look angry, she was relieved to note. Amused maybe, and… something else. Something softer that he was quick to hide when he saw her looking. Instead, he added, "You're the worst shotgun in… oh, I don't know… the whole entire history of _ever_, by the way."

Bela ignored that, choosing to gasp, "We're going to eat _here_?"

Dean shrugged and pushed open the door. "Luxury cuisine, baby!"

"Five dollars or less!" she singsonged back, but she followed him inside anyway, to stretch her legs more than anything.

Let it be said right now that Dean Winchester was a gas station pro. He wove his way up and down the aisles, browsing expiry dates on pre-packaged mystery foods with careful diligence, and could carry an armful just so. He picked up some chips and pop while she stood around dumbly; added a few bags of candy and a chocolate bar for good measure. Dumped it all on the till, and went back for two of those pre-packaged sandwiches he'd passed up earlier.

"Dig in, sweetheart," he told her on the way back. "This stuff's friggin' _delicious_."

Yeah okay, no. Bela watched him irritably as he made his way back to pay; refused to budge when he made small talk with the clerk. Caught him say, "Know anywhere decent to stay around here? My girl over there's bit high maintenance" and decided that she just didn't want to know what Dean considered decent, or what the acne-ridden teen did either. Bad enough that they shared a look of extreme masculine understanding, coupled with a _crazy women_ snicker. Scowling, she made her way to the cooler, only to scowl even harder when she noticed that the Impala's window had left her cheek with a huge red pressure mark. Rubbing at it, she opened the cooler and cringed at the rush of icy air.

In the end, she settled on a bottle of apple juice and a bagel she decided only looked a little stale. Passed on the cream cheese, which was sitting in little packets on the counter, because who knew when that had last seen a refrigerator? Dean snorted at her choice and called her a health nut under his breath. Another glance was exchanged between him and the cashier, and Bela huffed all the way back to the Impala.

The bagel was not very good without cream cheese, nor was it very filling. She ate it anyway, chewing hard over the stale bits, while Dean looked down his nose at her and made a quick call on his cell phone, referencing the number the clerk had scrawled down onto the backside of Dean's receipt. He inquired about late check ins, came up with some bullshit story that blamed her entirely for their lateness, and then threw the Impala into gear, looking strangely self-satisfied.

"Where are we going?" she asked, when she was finished with her poor imitation of a bagel.

"I'll tell you this and only this," Dean began, smiling dramatically. "Place is named after pie! How fucking cool is that?"

* * *

Apple Pie Ridge Bed and Breakfast was 11 miles outside of Wheeler, West Virginia. Dean drove it in silence, which Bela was becoming accustomed to, but he seemed alive with nervous energy, which she was not. He took back roads, dark and winding, and his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a steady staccato.

She smiled when she saw it, surprised and pleased in spite of herself. Dean coloured when he opened the door and exited the car; didn't look at her when he busied himself trying to tug her suitcase out of the back. The line of his shoulders was tense.

It was a pretty old farmhouse, Southern style, surrounded by fields turned bluish under the moonlight and more of the trees Bela had grown used to over the past few hours. Different though, in their abundance. She blinked and then opened her eyes wide, trying to take in the rolling hills and the gentle nighttime ambience.

It was _decent_, definitely. Not the sort of place that would have been Bela's first choice, but the kind she might have been sorry for overlooking. It felt homey, even here in the drive, in a way that she wasn't used to.

_You did good, Dean_, she wanted to say, but the words froze on her lips, and she was quiet too when she followed him up the lane and inside.

A pleasant looking older woman was waiting in the lobby when they entered, relaxing in a chair and reading what Bela saw was a historical romance novel. Stood and made her way to an antique table, strangely outfitted with all the modern conveniences, and beamed at them, even if her smile was all for Dean. Despite the fact that his back was towards Bela, she could very well imagine the charming smile gracing his own face.

"Evening, ma'am," he greeted, stopping and waiting for Bela to join him. "Sorry to bother you so late. Appreciate you taking us in."

He elbowed her subtly enough, and so Bela chirped in with an exaggerated sigh and a pleased, "How wonderful to be out of that car!" Even though she would have played along without the prodding, thanks ever so. And it was pretty damned wonderful. Not even a lie.

"Not a problem!" the woman chirped, typing away for a moment on the keyboard. She gazed at the screen, face highlighted by fluorescent glow, and then added, "Readied up the Macintosh room as soon as you called. Our other two are full, but I'm sure you'll find that one up to your standards, sir."

It didn't have cockroaches, Bela was willing to guess, and therefore probably surpassed any standards her traveling companion might have. Dean was nodding his thanks, digging for his wallet, probably for show, and it occurred to Bela on a moment of irritated panic that there was no way either one of the brothers Winchester could actually afford a place like this. Trust one of them to find some place _decent_, only to manipulate their way out of footing the bill. She huffed underneath her breath so that the woman couldn't hear, and found her own wallet in her purse. Mentally added it to the evergrowing Winchester tab.

Dean shot her an annoyed look and sidestepped her neatly when she tried to move forward, hip checking her behind him like she was a misbehaving child. She heard the sound of a credit card smacking down onto the table, and tried to wiggle around him for a better look. He took advantage of the moment, caught her around the waist, and tugged her into his side, fingers dangling with apparent affection near her waist. Bela stiffened and then relaxed against her will, softening into his side.

"My wife here's used to being the big breadwinner," Dean confided, all rueful amusement. "Haven't been married long enough for her to get used to not paying."

The lie made Bela blush, which the woman took as familiar impatience, but Dean didn't lighten his grip. Smiled down at her and said, "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"He's so old fashioned," Bela giggled inanely.

The woman behind the desk smiled and asked, "How long have the two of you been married?" Swiped Dean's credit card and examined the signature.

Bela said, "A little over a month" at the exact same time Dean said, "Winter wedding."

They were in the middle of exchanging panicked looks when the woman laughed and said to Bela, "My husband's never been able to get it right either. Says it feels so much longer than it is. Right this way though. I think you'll be happy with the Macintosh room. It's our most romantic suite." And she winked over her shoulder at them.

Bela jabbed Dean in the back hard with her fingernails and he scowled at her, before turning to follow the woman, dragging her suitcase and his duffel bag behind him. She cringed as it scraped along the hardwood floor and wished Dean would just pick it up. Or give it to her. Either way.

The woman noticed it too, and commented, "What a bright shade of pink!" And before Dean was even done with his smug look, "Bet you never lose this at the airport!"

* * *

It wasn't awkward, at least not with the woman still in the room. While she explained that they were to share a bathroom with the Grimes Golden room—and Bela was so hungry, even after that stupid bagel—Dean poked around, nodding at this and that. Bela took in the king-size bed—Sleep Number, the woman pointed out excitedly—with its crisp royal blue duvet, the same shade exactly as the walls, and ran the toe of her shoe over the hardwood, which she thought was beautiful and stain free. Now here was a room you could take your shoes off in! There was a rocking chair and a loveseat, facing the east and west windows respectively, and Bela gazed out at darkened farmland while Dean small talked the woman right out of the room.

When the door closed behind her, Dean observed with a touch of dark panic, "There's no TV in here."

"I think the view is supposed to do it for you, you idiot," she told him, rather fondly. "And there's one downstairs in the living room."

"_Share_ it?" he gasped, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of the loveseat. "Over my dead body."

Bela shrugged and took off her coat as well. She watched Dean poke around for a bit, and waited until he was settled on the loveseat.

"I can't believe you said we're married," she said, perching gingerly down onto the duvet. She felt gross and clammy, worn out and cramped from the ride.

Dean smirked. "I know. I'm much too good for you. Revel in the fantasy, Bela. Try it out for size: _Mrs. Winchester_." Saying it gave Dean a start, and he broke eye contact, gazing out the window at the night sky.

It gave Bela a start too, and she snarked back, "Widow practically before wife" without thinking about it.

She hadn't even meant _his_ death, had been thinking about being a hunter's wife in general, but Dean flinched, and so did she. Funny how easy it was to forget in his presence. It _was_ awkward then, and the room was so silent Bela thought she'd go crazy with it. Then Dean laughed, although it lacked any real humour.

"Kind of nice not to tip toe around it, I guess." Pushed a hand through his hair and then said, "This okay then? Meet your approval, Miss High and Mighty?"

His tone of voice implied that it should have, but he sounded more uncertain than proud of his choice. The tense line of his shoulders was back, and he still wouldn't look at her.

Bela softened, out of guilt and perhaps something more. "This place is charming. Really."

Dean's shoulders relaxed and his smile was genuine this time. Stood up and looked around. "Think she actually _has_ pie?"

Bela narrowed her eyes. "You are not actually still hungry."

A shrug. "Growing boy, Bela. Gonna go see if I can charm me a piece."

And he was gone, before Bela could comment one way or another. Sighing to herself, she opened her suitcase and found her housecoat and pajamas. Left the room and found the bathroom; knocked to make sure it wasn't already occupied by whatever the hell apple room they were sharing it with.

She felt better after her shower, more human at any rate. Slipped on pink plaid boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, hid the whole ensemble underneath her housecoat, and made her way back towards their room.

Dean had beaten her there. He was sitting on the right hand side of the bed, empty plate on her half of the bed, and was reading, believe it or not, the Bible. He glanced up when she came in, eyes alight.

"The ugly housecoat makes its return!" he observed, smiling. "Got you a slice of pie. Aren't I a freaking gentleman!"

The pie wasn't apple, to Bela's surprise, and it had grown cold during her shower. She ate it anyway, smiling at the tart sweetness of the berries, and watched Dean read.

"The Bible?" she asked after a moment.

"No TV!" His smile was wry. "For this ye know," he read, all lofty and pretentious, "that no whoremonger, nor unclean person, nor covetous man blah blah blah hath any inheritance into the kingdom of God."

She narrowed her eyes, stacked their plates, and sat beside him, careful to keep her distance. "Good thing I just showered then."

"Hope you like hot weather," he continued, swatting her in the thigh.

"Whoremonger," she hissed.

"Covetous man," he returned. "Or woman. What_ever_. Where'd you find the shower anyway?"

"Down the hall."

Dean stood up and grabbed his cell phone. Dropped the Bible on her lap. "Learn something, you Hell bound creature you," he instructed, before leaving her alone once again.

It was only eleven o'clock, and Bela was not strictly tired, but she made a mad dash to turn out all the lights anyway. The sheets were crisp and smelled like fabric softener; she buried her nose in them and willed herself to fall asleep before Dean's inevitable return.

Her nap in the car had pretty much ruled that out, and lying down to sleep made her miss her cat. Biting her lip, she tried not to think of Dean, and ended up thinking of him anyway, the pit of her stomach warm and uncomfortable. Felt nauseous, actually, like extended exposure to him was a disease. Wondered about Sam's progress and hoped… hoped…

Hoped too hard to go there. Not that it mattered. If Dean wasn't in the midst of dying, he never would have shown up on her doorstep. Any time was better than no time, and Bela had no illusions about what would happen if Sam found a way out of this bind. Dean'd be off without so much as a thank you ma'am. She'd run into him time to time, sure; then, maybe not. Had gone years without meeting him. Could go years more. _Would_ go years more if—

The door to the room opened and closed, and Dean came in smelling like soap. He went through his duffel bag loudly, chucked his cell phone at the end table, and generally did nothing whatsoever to ensure that she didn't wake.

"I rang room service for an extra blanket," she told him sweetly. "Hope the loveseat's comfortable!"

Dean snorted. "For you, you mean? No fucking way I'm sleeping on that thing. It's like ten feet shorter than me."

She stole a glance at him, hoping she was hidden in a cocoon of covers. He was wearing sweatpants and nothing else, and her gaze lingered despite all of her intentions. His back was to her, and she felt her cheeks heat up as she admired hard muscle and smooth lines. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, and she surreptitiously shoved them underneath her hip to still the movement.

Dean took his time, like he sensed her admiration. Stretched, slow and leisurely. Bela bit her lip and tried to stay absolutely still, afraid of spooking him… into clothing or something.

And then he dropped his pants. Dropped them! Right there! In front of her!

Bela squeaked, staring out and out at the admittedly-underwear-clad bum a few feet from her face, and then caught her breath. It was okay, she thought, chewing at her lip. Nothing more than an abso-bloody-lutely stunning young man within in arm's reach and… and…

Gathering her thoughts, she stuck her foot of the bed and kicked him soundly on the arse… which was just as firm as it looked. Heaven help her.

"Put your trousers back on!" she sniffed, all maidenly dignity.

Dean turned around and laughed, a short sharp bark. Bela was glad it was dark enough to hide her pink cheeks.

"Put my trousers back on?" he mimicked, still chuckling. "Oh my God, try not being twelve. I was so freaking nice out in Montana and now, let's be honest. I have a fucking month and a half to live: I'm going to sleep however the hell I want. Besides…"

A moment during which Dean climbed onto the bed and yanked the covers away from her body. The colder air of the room blasted into her, and she made a grab for the blankets, but Dean held her down by the shoulder, blatantly admiring her own pajamas.

Oh God, his chest was even nicer than his back. And his gaze was lingering for far too long.

"You're not really wearing a whole helluva lot yourself," he observed, not sounding too put out by it. Her struggle had inched her t-shirt up, and he reached forward, playing with the hem before smoothing it down over her belly. "You sleep in your pants and then we'll talk."

And that apparently was that. Flopping down onto his back, Dean jerked the covers back up and went still. The bed was big enough that they could lie without touching and that, Bela figured, was a blessing in disguise. She could hear him breathing, but she couldn't _feel_ him and… and, she didn't want to anyway. So there.

But Dean must have moved. Someone must have moved, because she felt his fingers brush hers, before falling partly away. Pinkies touching then. Nothing else. Still a-okay.

"Got hold of Sam," he informed her, after a minute or two.

Bela had figured based on the cell phone, but she didn't want to comment then—or now—in case she said too much. Or not enough. Harder to lie to an expert on lying than it was to lie to a sweet woman behind the counter, now wasn't it?

Tone like sugar, she inquired, "Run far enough away from you yet? Do thank him for sticking you with me next time you talk."

Dean chortled, "Oh please. I'm freaking _awesome_ company." Then, "Told me to sit tight, keep on keeping on, blah blah blah… spewed a lot of crap."

And then she wished it was lighter in the room so that she could see Dean's face. He didn't _sound_ angry, but he didn't sound right either. Angled herself up onto one elbow to attempt to make out the expression on his face, but it was sealed away, hidden. He met her eyes, and wiggled his pinky finger so that it rubbed hers.

And then Dean dropped the bombshell.

"I know, you know. Ain't friggin' _stupid_. I know exactly what he thinks he's doing."

Oh. _Oh_. But did he know _she_ knew?

Softly, she said, "He might find something."

"Oh, spare me the false hope," he grouched, crossing his arms. "He's not going to find a damned thing, and that's the only reason I'm letting him go. I get it, right. I'd do the same fucking thing if it was him. This trip isn't for _me_. Anything I can do to keep the kid from going crazy after…" _I'm gone_. "Anyway, if he needs this week to bust his balls for fuck all, then fine. But there's _nothing_."

Which Bela knew, but the desperation that had snuck into Dean's voice gave it a whole other heartbreaking edge. She laid back down beside him, closer now, and stared up at the ceiling. His hand crept back and she opened hers wide, allowing him to entwine their fingers. The gesture felt _scared_ and almost turned her stomach; she heard Dean swallow in the darkness.

At least she knew what he'd been brooding about all day. Like she hadn't already, somewhere.

"You two drive me nuts," she snapped, so abruptly that Dean startled. "Really, you do. If you don't approve of it, _stop_ it. If he can't stop it, he should just sit right down and spend some time with you while he still can. You're both just such fucking martyrs. I don't even like to listen to you talk."

There was a pause, huge and yawning, and then Dean chuckled, out of surprise more than anything. Squeezed her hand.

"You're such a bitch," he told her, but there was affection there.

"And yet here we are."

"Here we are." There was a pause again, and then, "Maybe he just wants to get with Ruby. Got some hidden kink for demon girl. Maybe he just took off to get it on."

"Ahh, Ruby," Bela said, happy that he wasn't angry at her outburst. "Now there's a piece of work."

An interested, "You know her?"

"Heard things." She shrugged. "I hear lots of things."

Bela listened to Dean breathe for a good thirty seconds before he said, "But… you've heard _nothing_, right? Like… about me." The last bit spit out in a rush.

_I'm sorry, Dean_. She cuddled a bit closer because this seemed like the kind of thing that should be accompanied by some sort of touch, although Bela had never been much for that sort of thing and wasn't sure how to go about it. Dean sensed her movement towards him, however, and lifted an arm so that she could settle in out of sight. And still she couldn't say it. Not with his breath tickling her forehead, and his chest rising and falling against hers. Frowning, she rolled over and grasped at his arm when it settled around her stomach.

_Say it, woman. Nothing. Nada. You're going to Hell, Winchester._

But the words tasted foul and she couldn't say them. Instead, she shook her head into the pillow. Dean sighed, and then began to rub slow, comforting circles over her cotton covered tummy. Squeezed her once hard, all over.

"'S okay," he murmured. "Not like I didn't know that either."

The subject had killed the desire to talk, and so Bela set her mind to sleeping. Dean was behind her, deliciously warm and alive, and she was all but clinging to his arm, which was embarrassing but… somehow okay. His heat was making her drowsy, and it was all going to be alright eventually, because… because a month and a fucking half could still be a really long time. And he was here now.

_Very_ here, in fact. She smiled into the pillow when he moved in closer, burying his face into her hair. Wouldn't have pegged him for a cuddler, she thought, not really. And, on that note:

"Are you hitting on me, Dean Winchester?"

He chuckled dozily, a heavy rumble against her back. "_Gross_. No way in hell!"

But his hands told a different story, rubbing still at her stomach, and the arms around her were gentle and caressing. He didn't _have_ to sleep that close, God knew, and her smile grew with a will of its own.

Because she didn't _care_ see.

And then Dean pressed a firm kiss against the back of her head and laughed again, louder this time. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "Like… a very little."

She elbowed him in the stomach and laughed herself. "I have a headache," she told him primly.

Still holding onto her, he bounced his hips against the mattress hard like some giant perv. Grinned into her hair when the springs didn't squeak and the headboard didn't smack the wall.

"C'mon, Bela, we're _newlyweds_."

"You forgot our anniversary. I'll never forgive you."

"I'll be good, Bela," he wheedled, but he was sleepily settling back in. "_Real_ good, like blow your mind out of this world--"

"My oh my, aren't you delusional!" Then, "Wheeler isn't very far away. Go show me what a whoremonger you _really_ are."

He snorted and groped awkwardly for her face, trying to clamp a hand over her mouth.

"Used up all my money on this damned room without a TV," he told her, and it was a definite whine.

She replied, "Oh, _gross_" and pointedly shut her eyes. Dean laughed to himself for a moment more and then quieted, seemingly pondering life in general—or hookers, she couldn't be sure.

Trying to take advantage of his good mood, she asked, "What's in Kansas, anyway?"

His voice was smiling when he answered, "The biggest piece of work you'll ever meet. Honest to freaking God."

And if that wasn't enough to keep Bela up and staring at the ceiling for longer than her tired eyes really wanted to, she didn't know what was.

**TBC...**

Apple Pie Ridge B&B is a real place. The woman who runs it in my head is completely fictional, and I've never been there, but it looks like a great place to stay.

Also, I'm from Alberta, Canada. When it comes to the States, I have only been to Seattle, Florida, and Vegas. I have _no_ idea what Dean and Bela's little drive would consist of, so I apologize for any errors. Thanks to MapQuest for their dubious help. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

A subtle shifting of the mattress and a sudden lack of Dean related contact shook Bela out of what had been a peaceful sleep. Grumbling to herself, she tried to wiggle backwards into the warmth of the crevice Dean's body had filled seconds before; clamped her eyes shut and buried herself in blankets. Her stomach pitched, that unpleasant awake-too-soon feeling stealing over her, and she groaned again for good measure.

There was no reason to try to be quiet, she instinctively knew. Dean had rolled over, sure, but he was very much awake; she would stake all of her money on it. Once she realized his restless state, she was entirely too distracted by it to fall back asleep herself, despite the fact that her eyes felt full of sand and the bed was just so comfortable, and soft, and—

And, _God_, why wasn't he sleeping?

Rolling over herself, she peered at him through the dark and rubbed at her eyes. He was laying flat on his back, hands neatly folded on top of the blankets covering his stomach, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Didn't look like he'd slept at all.

"What are you doing?" she asked, swallowing in an attempt to make her mouth less dry.

Dean startled, glancing over at her quickly. They were closer than Bela thought they were, and she resisted the urge to scoot backwards. Clamped her mouth shut, just in case she had morning breath.

"Thinking," Dean informed her, whispering like there was someone else to wake up.

Bela chortled to herself. "Thinking? You _do_ that?" But she tried to snark close to her pillow, wishing like hell for a toothbrush.

Dean groaned and closed his eyes. Reached out awkwardly with his arm and tugged her close. She rolled willingly into a wall of firm, warm chest, and tentatively laid her hand near the one of his that remained on the blanket. Fixated and drowsy, she watched their hands rise and fall in time with his breathing.

"Snarky even at…" A glance at the clock on the night table. "Three thirty in the morning. Aren't you a joy to be around."

He still smelled like soap from his shower, she noticed. Carefully, terrified of what she was doing, she raised her hand and slipped it under the blanket, finding skin. He sucked in a breath at the hesitant touch, but did not move away. It was lack of sleep, Bela told herself, making her act this way.

"Have you slept at all?" she inquired.

He shook his head, but didn't say anything. They laid in silence for a while, both listening to the sounds the old farmhouse made. Bela needed the bathroom, but didn't exactly want to move. The hand behind her shoulder moved to her hair, tangling in yesterday's curls, and began to rub slow circles onto her scalp. The contact practically made Bela purr and she cuddled closer, mimicking Dean's gentle circles on his stomach with her fingernails. Muscles flexed beneath her fingers, and Dean gave a contented grunt, which made Bela giggle.

"Does that make you tired?" she asked. "You're like a bloody cat."

Dean smirked, rubbing at her hair some more. "Oh, baby, doesn't exactly make me _tired_!"

He said it as a joke, the same as any other they'd cracked at one another a million times before, but this time it made Bela catch her breath; made Dean catch his when he heard the sharp intake of hers. Angling himself up on one arm, he gazed down at her, hand moving from her hair to trace feather light across her cheek. Bela blinked up at him, forgot about morning breath, and ran her hands over onto his back, delighting in the feel of muscles dancing under her palms. Her stomach flip flopped and she shifted her weight, suddenly restless, when Dean adjusted his position to accommodate her touch; when his eyes fluttered shut on a sigh at the contact.

"Bela," he began, and it was an invitation; a warning.

Even still…

She wasn't terribly sure which one of them moved. _Both_ of them, maybe, because suddenly his mouth was on hers, exploring and tasting with greedy hunger. He tasted like sleep and desperation; she wasn't sure what she tasted of, but it mustn't have been bad, if the appreciative noises he was making in the back of his throat were any indication.

Angled upwards herself, and Dean helped her, flattening her against his chest and kissing her for all she was worth. The feeling of his hands, not at all tentative, not at all unsure, branded heat down her arms, her back, and this was good, even if it was something she _had_ been joking about herself. This felt like _relief_. Like _finally_. Freeing her hands, she grasped Dean's cheeks and tried to tell him all of that without words by deepening the kiss.

Not one to be left behind, he kissed her back with new ardor, right there with her. She felt him jolt at an accidental brushing of her breast, but an encouraging sigh from her left him suitably distracted. It wasn't until he started attempting to tug her fully into his lap that Dean seemed to come back to himself fully, like the soft contact of her thigh actually screamed _your hand is half up the shirt of a woman you hate! You are dry-humping her thigh! Horror! Horror!_

And his mouth was gone, and his hands were gone, and--

He laughed, completely hysterical and out of place, before pulling back enough to take stock of the situation. Bela could see it from his point of view, her half sprawled all over him, and felt her cheeks pink with the suddenness of his awareness, as well as the abrupt return of hers. He'd gone tense all over—not in a good way either—and she fell back out of his lap as quickly as she could to avoid this new… whatever.

Dean took a shaky breath and pushed a hand through his hair, watching her cautious retreat. His cheeks were flushed, and that made her feel better, but he was avoiding her gaze, which made her feel worse. Quick sidelong glances implied that he thought she was from another planet, one in which it was completely okay to say _you aren't sleeping_ all bitchy-like one moment, and then jump poor unsuspecting insomniacs the next, like he hadn't been a part of it at all. Like debatably, he hadn't been the one who jumped her. Dean looked detached, and she was thinking hysterical thoughts, which had completely slowed the realization that her shirt was riding entirely too high up her stomach. Scowling, she darted an embarrassed look at him and tugged it down. God, she felt like a hussy.

"Didn't invite you with me for this," he told her, and his voice was shaky too. Then he was scooting away from her, finger pointed in her direction. "Fuck, I can't do this."

Bela managed to regain enough control to want to say _it doesn't matter_, but it died in her throat when she saw the finality in his eyes. Abruptly, she wondered what the hell _she_ was doing, anyway. Dean Winchester, beautiful broken Dean Winchester, but he was a hunter, he didn't even like her, and he was going to _die_. All the same, she felt a loss in the pit of her stomach when he untangled himself from the blankets and stood, doing a little dance on the spot. He was flushed, she noticed, and antsy.

"Why did you invite me?" she asked, meaning to, she didn't know, _murmur_ or something, but that was definitely a hiss, and Dean was definitely wincing. Glancing away, Bela ran her finger along the edge of the blanket so she wouldn't have to see his face. Held her breath in anticipation of his answer.

And Dean didn't answer her. "Does it matter?" he asked, and even without looking Bela saw his arms flail to enunciate his point. "Wasn't everything just fucking peachy?"

A clunk that caught Bela's attention; Dean was hopping around, trying to get into his pants while maintaining the heat of the glare aimed at her. Uncharitably, she hoped he toppled right over. And then he continued with, "God, it's never enough with you. It's never fucking enough with _anyone_!"

Which meant God knew what and—

"Shut up, Dean," she threw right back. "Answer my questions, or don't. Don't you throw half sentences around at me. I don't _get_ what you are trying to say! I don't get for one minute what you want, showing up at my flat and proposing some half thought out road trip. You're going to have to explain it to me and--"

But Dean was going, exiting with a parting shot of, "I don't know what _you_ want, and I don't have to explain a goddamned thing." And he didn't even slam the fucking door, she noticed.

Anger rendered Bela immobile for a moment. She sat perfectly still, and fumed to herself, thinking about how much she hated Dean and hunters and men in general. God, she hated him, the mean horrible tease, and—

Pulled her knees up, and tried not to cry, out of embarrassment, out of loss, out of _something_.

"Just run away, Dean!" she called after him, although he was doubtlessly too far gone to hear. "Just fucking leave!"

Collapsed down backwards into a ball, and pulled the blankets over her head, squinting hard to avoid tears.

* * *

When Bela awoke in the morning, throat scratchy with sleep, Dean was not beside her.

Panicking a little, she smacked her hand all over his half of the bed, thinking half formed crazy thoughts about being left in West Virginia, Impala blazing away on his hysterical laughter, but when she sat up on a rush, she spotted him sprawled out on the loveseat, legs dangling off the end and one arm thrown in the direction of the floor. Warmth rushed through her belly, and then uncomfortable awareness too. And if that wasn't enough, _anger_ hadn't exactly moved out yet. Or confusion, or—ugh, she wanted coffee.

Couldn't deal with him right now, she decided. Tried to be quiet getting up; was halfway into her housecoat when he groaned and the hand on the floor moved to his face.

"Fuck, this is not comfortable," he let her know, voice gravelly.

Bela grimaced to herself and mimicked him, sour in the light of day. "You could have come back to bed," she pointed out. "I do have _some_ control. Besides, if it's your own control you're worried about, rest assured that you are never touching me again." So there.

He replied, "Whatever", which was insulting, and tried to flop over onto his side, almost pitching himself off the narrow space. Bela glared at his back, too aware of the awkwardness of the situation, and left for the bathroom in a huff.

When she came back to fetch her clothes, Dean was sitting up on the loveseat. He gave her a smile that was just short of apologetic, but didn't meet her gaze, like he was afraid she was going to… cry or something. Cry and want to _talk_ about it. That made Bela's scowl deepen, and she stomped towards her suitcase, Dean's gaze burning a hole in her back. He got up too and wandered towards his duffel, clearing his throat when he almost collided into the whirlwind of motion that was Bela avoiding Dean.

"Look, Bela--"

She found gray trousers, hardly wrinkled, and gave them a shake. "Spare me, Dean. I'm not some fragile flower. We only kissed. I'm hardly a blushing little maiden. Just shut up. I don't want to talk about it."

_I can't do this_ she mimicked mentally, feeling bitter and surprisingly more than a little hurt. He had practically _dumped_ her out of his lap before taking off to God knew where, and if it was uncomfortable this morning, it was his entire fault. Mixed signals, wasn't it, sticking his tongue down her throat and then carrying on like he had, like she was grasping, and greedy, and wanted everything—which, touché—but c'mon.

"You should have gone into Wheeler and gotten yourself a hooker like I said," she tacked on for good measure.

Dean exhaled through his nose, an impatient, grouchy sound. "Yeah, I clearly should have. Least I woulda been guaranteed a happy ending."

She froze, hand hovering over the neatly folded clothes in her suitcase, and whirled around to look at him. "I beg your pardon?"

He cleared his throat and dropped eye contact, studying the worn top of his sock. "Jesus H. Christ," he swore. "Look, I didn't mean anything by that. I just--"

"Dean? Just stop talking," she implored, clenching her hand around crumpled trousers. His ears were turning red, with shame, with embarrassment, she didn't know. "I don't want to talk about any of this. Stop being such a woman."

After a moment, he said, "Are you going to beat me with your curling thing?"

From her bent over position, she attempted to angle him a glare. "What?"

Saw him shrug, before he dropped his gaze back to his feet.

And… _awkward_. Trying not to look at him, Bela found her suit jacket and her curling iron, as well as her make up bag. Dean stepped back when she walked by him, actually _sucking_ in his belly to avoid accidental contact, and she, mature wonderful woman that _she_ was, slammed the door behind her.

* * *

The sight of herself in the mirror gave Bela the first glimpse of relief that she'd felt all morning. The trousers weren't wrinkled, and her blouse, after a thorough shaking, was completely wearable. She had forgotten her heels in the room with _him_, but she knew from experience that the opened toed black ones were just the thing. Looking good had always been a comfort to her, and now she had a part to play—that jackass's _wife_, no less—and she was going to own it. Really, she was.

Granted, she looked entirely too good to be the wife of Dean Winchester. Or at least she would when make up fixed the blotchiness and her hair wasn't shooting out in crazy angles and odd kinks. She was going to look _so_ much too good for him it wasn't even going to be funny.

"Too respectable," she hissed, turning on the curling iron and cracking open her make up bag. "Too classy."

She was done her make up and halfway through the nightmare that was her hair when a subtle knock on the door disturbed her. Scowling, she called out, "Busy just now, thanks ever so."

"Decent?" And only one person could bark like that.

Scowl deepening, Bela put down her curling iron and flipped open the lock. Dean entered at the sound, closing the door behind him, like his announcement of, "Breakfast buffet's up in ten" was the most confidential thing she'd ever hear ever.

"Thank you, Dean," she clipped, before turning her back on him.

If he got the dismissal in her gesture, he ignored it entirely, moving instead to perch on the edge of the bathtub behind her. He looked tired and haggard, she noticed, like he'd pulled a Sam and sat up all night angsting. Tired and haggard in the reflection of the mirror but… well, rather _good_ too, cleaned up as he was.

Cleared his throat for the millionth time that morning, and said, "I've come to inquire about that angry sex, actually. Pretty good lock on this door… well, pretty good lock if you aren't _me_. I've always enjoyed sex before breakfast. And lunch, come to think of it."

Hesitantly and so very hopefully that Bela scoffed, although she knew beyond a doubt that it was a bit of peace he was after, and not angry sex at all. Bringing the banter back to familiar territory, although it wasn't really funny anymore now that she knew what his mouth felt like. Clearing her own throat, she took a look at him in the mirror, and tried to hold her glare.

And… checked herself. She thought she'd noticed that particular shirt loose over a t-shirt before, but he'd buttoned it up now, properly, and the jeans he was wearing were without the mud stain she'd noticed on yesterday's pair. Cleaned up but still _Dean_. She thought he looked a little sleazy or a little _too_ good depending, she couldn't decide. Like he'd seen a picture somewhere of what a young married man should look like, and had copied out every detail. This piece of hair parts here and—

She smiled before she thought about it.

Dean caught it in the mirror quick as lightening and pounced on it with one of his own, like he'd only been waiting for a break in the awkwardness he'd caused to try to smooth things over without actually having to do it himself. Like saying _breakfast's in ten_ meant _awkward, and I'm sorry_ in Dean-speak.

Which was okay, because Bela sighed and said, "Why are you still here?" which meant that she was sorry too.

Dean shrugged. "Like to watch." Rocked on his heels, eyebrows a-wiggling. "Got no one better to look at. Folks in that other apple room could be my grandparents. Rather stare at a young piece of ass…" And he leered at hers.

Well now, she knew exactly what it felt like to have him _touch_ her aforementioned bum and—

Bela shook it a bit to maintain the mood, and then picked up her curling iron, watching Dean watch her in the mirror. Or rather, her bum.

"I like to get ready in silence," Bela warned, shaking the hot barrel of the iron at him. "_Complete_ silence."

"Oh, I do love me a bossy woman," Dean shot back, smirking like it wasn't only the most awkward thing to say ever. Off her look, he pretended to zip his lips; leaned back as much as he could without toppling over into the tub.

And fine, Bela thought, if they were ignoring things, she could do that too. Sighing, she separated a strand of hair, and watched Dean's eyes follow her every movement, a strange and pensive appearing look on his face as soon as he thought she wasn't looking.

* * *

The breakfast buffet was like some kind of dream come true for Dean. She watched him walk up and down, stacking his plate sky high after observing all there was to observe. From her position next to the pancakes, Bela could make out eggs—three?—a large helping of pancakes, a healthy stack of bacon, an overflowing scoop of hash browns, a couple of pieces of toast, and… randomly, an orange. Glancing down at her three pancakes, she thought her breakfast looked rather paltry, and grabbed a plump strawberry to settle atop the syrupy mound. And… perfection.

"Quality, not quantity," she murmured to herself.

She followed Dean to a table on the far side of the room, noticing that the damned food had even given him a bounce to his step. He was gone with his cup before she made it to the table, and came back with it full of steaming coffee. The smell of it made her nose twitch in appreciation.

"Be a good husband," she instructed, pointing at her cup.

Dean had a comeback ready, she could see it, but luckily for her the other room's occupants made their entrance, and all she got from Dean was a sugary smile.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," he singsonged on a sigh.

She smiled pleasantly at him, but scowled when she saw that he was giving her the finger behind his back. Called out, "Two sugars would you, darling! And a little cream!"

She thought he might have said, "Oh, I'll cream you right good, you bossy bitch" but she couldn't be quite sure; when he arrived back with her coffee, it looked alright and relatively un… spit in or something. Bela took a cautious sip, staring in disgust at his plate over the rim of her cup.

Looking down her nose at him digging in, Bela said, "Please tell me you don't intend to eat all of that."

"All of what?" he asked, around a mouthful of egg. He glanced at his plate with genuine confusion, and then glanced at hers. Spotted the beautifully plump strawberry she'd settled atop her pancakes and pilfered it before she had time to blink. "Thanks, sweetheart. I know how much it means to you that your man is well nourished."

"What? Cut the crap! You give me back my strawberry, you bottomless pit!" she hissed, nudging him under the table as hard as she could. "I found that first and—"

But then the woman who had ushered them to their room last night appeared, presumably to check on the state of their breakfasts, and exclaimed, "Well, if it isn't the Buckmasters! Did you enjoy your pie?"

Bela, who was busy pondering the horror that was Bela Buckmaster, noticed that Dean actually managed to swallow his food before fixing the woman with his most charming smile.

"Pie was delicious, Sarah," he told her sincerely, savoring the word _delicious_. "Wifey here was in the shower and it was all I could do not to eat her piece too."

The woman—_Sarah_— beamed at Dean and took the place across the table from Bela, as though it was the most normal thing she could possibly have done. Victim of Dean Winchester Number 9542, Bela thought sourly. Surely her own rush of completely unjustified jealousy was just a delusion directly related to having to play at Dean's wife for longer than thirty seconds. Sarah was easily old enough to be Dean's mother, was pushing on elderly aunt more realistically.

"Hope you don't mind me sitting here," Sarah said, and Bela forced some impression of a smile.

Dean laughed--_the_ laugh—and Bela was irked to find herself falling for it right along with Sarah. "Not at all, ma'am." And then, in that horribly fake sugary tone again, "Was meaning to track you down to tell you that our date was March 14. Felt just terrible not remembering." Another smile, more pensive this time, and then Dean's hand was folding over hers, and the smile was all for Bela. "See, sweetheart? I'm not all bad."

Bela tried not to gag, but Sarah tutted. "Oh, I hope you didn't hold it against him, dear. Men and dates, you know!"

Bela clenched her teeth, but managed a smile and a giggle of her own. "Well, if he'd have eaten my pie you had better believe that someone would have been sleeping on the loveseat." And she winked cheekily, right at Dean, whose high wattage smile dimmed for half a second.

And then, like the poor woman cared, Dean continued with, "I remember the first time I saw her, and that's gotta count for something." A challenge in his tone, daring Bela to interrupt.

Bela wanted to kick him under the table, and tell him to shut up because God knew Sarah probably didn't give a shit, quite frankly. But Sarah was still smiling, and it was an encouraging smile; Bela found that she could not make her lips move at all, curiosity freezing her to the spot. To cover it up, she sipped her coffee and stared at Dean over the rim of the cup. And Dean, that bugger, stared right back.

"Served me and my brother breakfast at this diner. Prettiest thing you ever did see. She had black hair then, and that little red uniform?" He shivered dramatically, but there was something else hidden in his tone that made Bela's skin tingle. "Actually went for my brother, if you can imagine it!"

Not one to be left behind, Bela said, "Well, he had something I wanted" before thinking about how it sounded, and was quick to add confidentially, "Between you and me, I wanted to kill his brother from almost that first moment. What a drama queen!"

And it never had been Sam, not for her. Looking back on it, she realized with a jolt that the only brother she could picture clearly from that morning was Dean, practically slobbering into his cup.

Now, Dean spluttered into his coffee, and sent her a pointed _don't talk about my brother, you bitch_ look. "Truth is, I was so… _blindsided_, I guess, that I forget to get her number. Lucky for me, turned out we had a mutual friend so I tracked her down."

And who cared if Sarah didn't care? Bela smiled for Dean and said, "He left a note on my door that said 'Turn around' and then there he was."

A small smile this time, without the charm, without the artifice. Quietly, "And there I was."

And Dean was good player, Bela thought with dismay, because while she was—ugh—mooning at him, he only held her gaze long enough to drive the point home, before looking again at Sarah.

"Awful kind of you to go to all this trouble," he drawled, indicating the buffet tables and his plate all in one sweep of his arm. "Best damned breakfast I've had in years."

Sarah shrugged, pushing up from the table. Smiled down at Dean like she wanted to pinch his cheeks, which made Bela feel considerably better.

"Family business, you know," she said. "You two enjoy your breakfast." And she rapped her knuckles lightly on the table before wandering over in the direction of the other couple.

"Make me puke," Bela hissed at Dean as soon as she was out of earshot. "'I remember the first time I saw her.' Ha!"

His jaw ticked, even through all the obnoxious chewing that he'd started up again. Pointed his fork at her. "You are one messed up chick, you know that? You fight with me all damned morning, then I try to be nice, and you're still a bitch. Makes a guy wonder--"

"If you ask me when my time of the month is, I will skewer you with my fork."

He glared at her. "Just for the record, you are the last person on earth I'd ever marry."

"Right back at you," she shot.

"I'm taking off after breakfast," he informed her. "Be ready, or I'm leaving your grouchy ass here, see if I don't."

* * *

The Impala was too small, that was for sure. Bela was currently squished against the door, as far away from Dean and his terrible singing as she could manage, contemplating murder-suicide. And other things too. Problem was, she _was_ feeling messed up, hurtling and out of control.

Too much Dean Winchester, obviously.

And yeah… obviously. She was so angry that it felt like a ball in her chest, and even she knew that she was overreacting; that she'd gone off like a cannon for no—well, very little—reason. Technically speaking, he'd done the honourable thing, cutting things off before they'd gotten too terribly far gone. Technically speaking—

Technically speaking, she _was_ being a bitch. However, Dean was such… well, Dean never really had to handle anyone but Sam, and she felt quite justified in thinking that it showed. But for someone in over their head, he was doing better than her.

Sighing, she leaned back against the door and took a good long look at him. Angle of his chin was proud, grip on the steering wheel was relaxed… if he was still mad at her miles away from Apple Pie Ridge, he'd forgotten it enough to slouch almost completely back into the seat. A small smile, his driving smile, was tugging at his lips and—

"I'm sorry, Dean," she blurted, before she could think about it too much.

He glanced at her, forgetting to replace the smile with a frown. Reached across the distance and smacked her thigh. "What?! Is the great proud--"

Gritted her teeth. "Less sorry by the second!"

But he laughed, and said, "Forget about it, okay?" Then, quietly, "For what it's worth… me too."

And it _was_ worth something. She smiled back at him, scrunching her face, before huddling back down into the seat. Kicked off her high heels and wiggled her nylon covered toes against the Impala's floor mats.

"Bruce Springsteen still around here?" she asked.

Dean scowled but pointed down at the tape box by her feet, where he'd tossed it the night before. Bela fetched it and slid it in, smiling still at his fake unhappiness, before leaning her forehead against the window. Trees whirred by too fast to focus on, and suddenly—crazy girl—she had an urge to giggle, at Dean's off key singing, at everything.

"Don't like my rendition?" he asked, poking her in the leg again. "This is the Boss at his best, baby."

Happier now, Bela found that time didn't exactly crawl. She tried to amuse herself by focusing hard enough to count the trees; got a cramp in her leg and spent some time trying to wiggle it out, while Dean watched her with an amused smile. After awhile, his hand found her thigh and stayed.

After awhile longer, he asked, "Are you tired?"

Bela wasn't, and the question would have been weird enough if it hadn't been occupied by an _uhh_ uncharacteristic of Dean. Pushing off the window, she glanced at him, eyes narrowed.

"No. We've only been driving for what? An hour? Are _you_ tired?"

Pointedly watching the road now, Dean shook his head. Bela sent him a strange look before settling back against the door.

Dean made her wait two more miles before trying again. "It's just that if you _were_… you know, tired… if you were."

Exasperation made her sigh. "If I was?"

A succinct nod. "Yes. You… you wouldn't have to sleep against the door. Baby knows I love her, but her door is hard as a rock. You could… you know, sit in the middle."

Except it came out more like sitinthemiddle, and Bela only blinked at him for a moment or two, watching his cheeks flush. That horrible feeling was back again, crowding out exasperation, and she couldn't control her smile.

"Do you want me to sit in the middle like I'm your girl, Dean?" she asked on a giggle, strangely pleased.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Fuck no. I said if you're tired. You're not tired, so you can stay where you are."

She did it to piss him off; God knew she didn't want to sit there all cozy after their rather bumpy morning, and she still _was_ miffed. Plus, chalk another one up to Dean's growing list of mixed signals. But watching him squirm was enough to do her in, and she faked a yawn before unbuckling and scooting over.

Then, there was a moment of dreadful awkwardness. Dean was no softer than the door, stiff as all hell at the first sign of contact, and Bela couldn't quite bring herself to relax either, feeling oddly defensive and on her guard. Must have looked ridiculous to passing cars bothering to glance in, both so straight and unnatural; then Dean leaned forward and turned up the volume, and the music seemed to ease his tension.

A few miles more, and Bela was quite content. Dean too, she thought, if the way he was playing with her hair and humming along to the tune instead of shouting it in her ear was any indication. She allowed herself the cautious liberty of finding his shoulder with her head, and he even angled to better accommodate her.

"It's a crime to drive without a seatbelt on," was what he informed her next. "Naughty girl, you."

"Going to punish me, Dean?" she sauced, catching her own breath at the feel of him catching his. She knew she was blushing, and cuddled in farther, lest he be able to glance at her in the rearview mirror. The fingers brushing her shoulder pushed too hard, but then he laughed, and so did she, out of relief. Took a surreptitious look around the car. "So, how many girls have you had in here?"

"_Had_ had?" he asked, and then pretended to think. Used the hand on the steering wheel to count with his fingers.

Bela laughed again, louder, and said, "You slut. Don't you imagine me kicking my knickers off in here."

He tensed again. Shook his head. "You'd be butter in my heads, baby," he cooed, "if I tried it."

And there it was again, out of nowhere, the niggling question that she couldn't shut up and that was guaranteed to cloud her mood—even though she _wanted_ to continue the banter; continue the fun. Did she ask it? Did she not? Frowning, she slumped back down into him, and played with the hem of his t-shirt as distraction.

Dean was still chuckling. "Don't take it so hard, sweetheart! I'll introduce you to the backseat if you ask me real nice." When she was silent, he poked her shoulder and said, "What _now_, Bela? Fuck me, you're worse than Sam."

It was only that she had to know. Sighing, she murmured, "Honestly, Dean, why did you invite me?" for what felt like the millionth time; tried to make it sound like an apology.

Dean stiffened, jarring her cheek with the sudden upwards motion of his shoulder. She leaned back a bit too, putting her hand on his thigh.

"It's not a big question," she added, quickly. "I just have to know."

He sighed and then slumped backwards again, taking her with him. Watched the road for so long that she didn't think he'd answer, and then quietly, "Dunno. This might be the last non-hunting road trip I ever take…"

It hit her like a punch in the gut, the reminder of the thing she'd been too _angry_ and all over the place to remember. Unbidden, her hand crept onto his stomach, and she blinked a few times fast.

Gently, "But why with me?"

Another shrug. "Don't rightfully know. First I figured you're just annoying enough to be a distraction, and it's not really like I hate you, you know?" Now that he was going, he couldn't seem to stop the rush of confession. "Guess I should apologize for being a selfish dick. You didn't even really know me, and now... Guess I've fucked everything up, huh?"

And still with the fast blinking. "You wanted me to know you? Is that what that mess was supposed to mean?"

This time his shrug nearly shook her right off. "Well, don't make it sound so girly. And I told you. I thought the fact that you annoy the shit out of me would be a damned good distraction."

She was going warm all over, slowly and surely. Swiping at her face, embarrassed, she said, "I like the version you told Sarah better. Something about my uniform--"

Fondly, he exclaimed, "Oh yeah, that ass!" And he shoved his hand in her hair, angling her closer. "Hottest thing I'd ever clapped my eyes on."

She laughed, daring to run her hand along the hemline of Dean's jeans, not necessarily for any particular reason. When he didn't stop her as she thought he might, she stilled her hand and scooted closer.

"You're impairing my driving."

"Shut up, Dean."

After that, it was all silent driving. Bela let Dean control the radio, staring without purpose herself at the passing scenery. He left Bruce Springsteen on, but turned it down to a more relaxing volume. Toyed some more with her hair, wrapping his fingers in curls and tugging playfully.

"Don't pull," she warned.

Dean smacked at the side of her face and said, "Shuddup" on a slow drawl.

She was going to say something back—something _good_ too—but as soon as she angled her face up to see him, her train of thought flew away. And gawking was a pretty undignified word but… she could admit the truth in her head, couldn't she?

Dean Winchester was sitting at her side, watching the road fly by with the careful appreciative detail of a man who might never see it again; of a man about to die. And he'd said it earlier, said _possibly the last road trip_ or something like that, and damn her slow to process brain; damn her slow to process brain for only just chipping at the surface, because she realized now… Realized—

And it was dumb—it was possibly the stupidest moment of Bela's life—but right there in his stupid macho car was the first time she _really_ got it. Sure, she had toyed with the concept; she'd felt _bad_ about it. Seeing Dean there beside her, peaceful resignation playing across his features, was the first time Bela looked at Dean—literally looked at him—and thought about it.

Felt the callus on his thumb sweep the back of her neck; felt the heat in his palm.

Looked at him and had the second most stupidly timed realization of her life, and the second most slow and stubborn to arrive one too, because she knew right there and then that the last few times she'd seen Dean had had...

Oh God, she couldn't even think properly. She was a such a dolt. The last few times with Dean had meant something, there she'd thought it. World hadn't ended.

Furthermore, didn't mean something silly like oh-let's-exchange-banter-with-the-incredibly-attractive-yet-thickheaded-hunter, but actually _something_ something. Of course, the whole death and banter relationship would have hurt or stung or been _discomforting_, but this—these two realizations one after another--_this_ was like a sucker punch. Like fate had said _try this on for size_ and it was only the best fit ever, and then fate was all _ha!_ right in her face.

Quite like that, with Dean beside her and his fingers in her hair, it was too much. Bela knew about two minutes before it happened that she was going to cry. Like _really_ cry, the massive tears of the incredibly miserable, the unlucky, and the screwed. Or of the lonely… or of whatever.

Of the cheated, that was it, because wasn't Dean cheated? God, _dead_. Gone, _poof_! All the charisma disappearing to nothing, to non-existence and… and no one was going to randomly pop up at her flat once Dean was gone, unless they _actually_ wanted to kill her, and he thought he was selfish letting her know him, and… and…

She fought so hard to hold in her sob that it came out more like a gurgled gag. Dean shot back away from her, clearly thinking she was going to be sick, and blanched at the expression on her face.

"Bela, what is it?" he questioned.

Genuine concern that, wasn't it? Biting desperately at her lip, she pushed away from Dean and returned to her window, pressing her forehead against the glass. Practically hyperventilating, was what she was doing, and she _couldn't_ cry with him right here, couldn't be horrible enough to mourn him to his face, but God, she was mourning him—God, she _cared_ for him and—

The Impala jerked to the shoulder of the interstate; Dean threw it into park. She heard his seatbelt unbuckle, and then his arms were around her, squeezing her so tightly that she couldn't manage more than shallow little breaths. She let him pull her close, half in his lap; let him bury her face into her shoulder.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he crooned. "Just breathe."

And that breath was her undoing. As soon as sweet glorious air rushed through her lungs, she was crying, and crying in earnest too, rubbing her tearstained face all over his stupid buttoned up shirt, and clinging to his shoulders so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"I'm sorry," she moaned, "I'm so sorry, Dean."

For crying? For the fact that he was dying? For wasted time? She didn't know, and she knew he didn't either. But he was humming still, more to comfort her than anything else, and rocking her like a child, so she didn't think he was _mad_ exactly. Uncomfortable, sure, or he would be once the storm had ebbed and he realized… But the storm hadn't ebbed yet, and Bela buried her face in his shirt, smelling cologne, and cheap fabric softener, and _Dean_ all at once.

When she said, "I don't want you to die" it came out as a keen, high-pitched and unbearable even to her own ears, and made Dean go still. Then he was laughing, and pushing her off him, back far enough to see her tearstained, horribly red face, and she knew upon seeing him that it wasn't a funny laugh, not at all, more upset and strained, but he was pushing his hands through her hair, framing her face.

"You silly girl," he chuckled, frowning. "Stupid girl. Thought I could count on you to hate me."

He held her face still, and she couldn't stop breathing in big huffs that must have rushed wet across the heels of his hands, but he wasn't even looking at her, staring instead out the windshield of the Impala off at nothing. She sniffed loudly, and tried to reign herself in, humiliated and… crushed with realization. Buried with it.

When he looked back at her again, his expression was pinched, and the colour was high on his cheeks. Laughed, that same horrid sound, and said, "That's about the nicest thing you could ever have said to me."

And his mouth was on hers, before she could blink, a hard kiss that was over before it began; before she had time to do anything about it. And he was shoving a crumpled Kleenex under her nose, and telling her to blow.

"I can blow my own nose," she wailed, snatching it away from him.

He gave her until after she'd done it before gathering her in his arms again. Stroked her back until she quieted, muttering apologies under his breath all the while. Apologies peppered with the fact that he was a selfish dick, see this proved it, should have left her in Queens, shouldn't have let Sammy go—

Shouldn't have made such a stupid deal, but Dean didn't say that one, and she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't even thinking it, not really. His misery in the moment was directly related to hers, a result of the fact that he was _causing_ hers. He was not mourning himself, not at all, and that only made her cry harder; only made him shove her hand holding the rather wet Kleenex back up to her nose.

"Please stop," he murmured, near her ear. "You're making me feel like shit, sweetheart. I'm so fucking sorry you're feeling this way. So fucking sorry—"

Pulled back herself, and glanced at Dean, who was starting to look rather harried. "Stop apologizing, Dean. Please…"

And even though she was still sobbing and probably covered in snot, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, mimicking the speed of his earlier kiss.

"I _need_ to feel bad," she tried to explain, dropping another one, near the corner of his mouth. "How can I not?"

Turned his head, and caught her mouth, kissing her for real this time—and for long enough that she had to half sob right against his face. Hands buried in her hair, but he was all about comfort. Awkward though it was in the Impala, he managed to pull her mostly into her lap; she ducked her head to avoid the roof, and found the hollow of his neck, blinking against his skin as he continued to rock her.

"Swear to God, Bela," he was saying, "It's gonna be okay. Everything's going to be okay. It'll just be another day, right, when it happens? Fuck, everybody dies eventually. It's gonna be okay."

Swear to God? Letting Dean take hold of one of her hands, she cuddled as close as she could, trying to memorize the feel of his arms, the weight of his touch; trying to pretend that she had never heard such a big lie in all of her life, as that one right there:

_It's gonna be okay._


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six**

Despite any of her earlier proclamations of being anything other than tired, Bela's embarrassing and horribly timed cry had taken a lot out of her. She awoke to a face full of cotton—Dean's shoulder as it turned out—and a not so gentle nudging of her off of said shoulder.

"Up and at 'em," Dean was saying, a touch impatiently. "We have arrived."

Bela opened her eyes, curious to see where _arrived_ was, only to slam them shut on a moan. Bloody hell, how she hated crying! She felt like she'd done a round with… with… well, with someone who only punched people in the eyes; hers were pounding practically out of her skull with each of Dean's not so gentle nudges. Wincing, she palmed at them and sat up.

"Crying's a bitch," Dean commiserated, before shoving open the Impala's door and leaving her alone inside, slouched all against the leather and grimacing to herself. The back door opened, and Dean was in again, swearing and yanking on her suitcase. For good measure, he added, "I'm so fucking sick of lugging this pink… atrocity around. _Embarrassing_!" And slammed the door again.

Bela pushed open the passenger side door and held it that way with her foot. "Afraid the neighbours will see you? Start asking questions? Wonder if--"

"Out of the car before my time's up." A pause, and then, "Don't you push on the door with your shoe! It's friggin' filthy!"

"The door or my shoe?" she sighed, peering at herself in the rearview mirror. The sight that greeted her wasn't pretty—were those _creases_ on her cheeks? Oh God, was that _eye makeup_ on her cheeks?—and she let out a little gasp, scrubbing at her skin hard with her palm. Ugh, wherever arrived was, she wasn't going in. And her hair! Oh, her hair—

"Bela."

Groaning, she stretched and caught sight of a modestly sized house, white sideboard bright in the early—early what? What the hell time was it anyway?—whatever sunshine. That was it then, she thought, peering harder to try to see something interesting. Neat lawn, neat yard, neat… All the way to Lawrence for _this_?

"Who lives here?" she asked, letting her boredom show. "Some kind of baddie? Are we going to get to kick a little ass? Looks terribly dangerous, I've got to tell you. Exciting—you know, really riveting! In a not very riveting way, you see."

Dean looked half a second away from grabbing her ankle and physically hauling her out of the car. "Name's Missouri. She's… a friend."

And oh ho ho, the return of newly jealous Bela! Was out of the car like a shot, nearly tripping on her heel.

"Friend?" she squeaked, high pitched and terrible. Oh bloody hell, and, "You _have_ one?"

Dean made a snotty face and clapped the fingers of one hand at her, the universal _blah blah blah_ gesture. "Can we go inside, please? Or am I going to be forced to listen to your wit on Missouri's lawn all goddamned day?"

"Touchy," she said, as she moved to yank her suitcase handle out of Dean's hand. With as much dignity as she could muster in her wrinkled pants and _destroyed_ face, she passed him on the driveway and marched to the door. "Tell me about Missouri. I don't like going into situations blind."

"Friend of my dad," Dean admitted, trotting to catch her. "Promised Sam and I wouldn't be strangers but… well, you know. Don't much care for Lawrence."

Her throat constricted, and she swallowed hard, not glancing at him. "And now's the last chance."

"More or less," he replied, and there was something evasive there, in his tone. Peering at him strangely, Bela waited for him to ring the bell, lost her nerve, and demanded the car keys.

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. "Why?"

She felt her cheeks heat up and gestured at her hair. "I look terrible, Dean! I can't meet anyone like this. My hair!"

"Of all the vain, stupid things—"

"You could end this all by saying my hair looks _good_, you know."

But he bit his lip and snickered. "Why, Bela, lying is morally wrong." Still, passed her the car keys and that was really all she wanted. Clutching them tightly, she hopped down the steps, and was partly back to the car when she heard the front door open.

She heard someone cry out, "Well, if it isn't Dean Winchester" in a voice that was pleasantly soft; missed the rest, but gathered that it was something to do with the topic she didn't even like to think about. The woman—Missouri's—tone carried, concerned and sad, all the way down the drive. Ducking her head around, Bela saw her clap Dean into a comforting hug; saw Dean go rigid even across the distance.

Feeling slightly ill, Bela let herself back into the Impala and wasted ten minutes poking and prodding at herself. She felt strangely nervous, about to meet a friend of the Winchesters, an actual honest to God friend, and entirely in over her head, having been told so little. Took a few deep breathes before steeling herself.

Kissing Dean and crying on his shoulder hadn't improved his manners any. Although he had taken in her suitcase for her, he had not bothered to wait on the doorstep. Grumbling to herself, Bela rapped her knuckles gently against the screen door and let herself in.

Missouri and Dean were still standing near the door, and Bela thought she walked in on a moment that might just have been some type of comfort; Missouri was saying, "You've done a big thing for your brother" when the screen door slammed shut behind Bela, loud and unfortunate in the quiet room. Cringing, Bela offered up an apologetic smile.

Dean said, "Got your hair done all up to perfection?" with a sarcastic smirk at the same time Missouri said, "Oh my God."

Bela ignored Dean, glancing in surprise instead at Missouri, and after a moment, Dean glanced too. Both of them were all out gawking, Bela knew, but then Missouri was in turn staring at Bela like she was Christmas and her birthday arrived all at once. And Bela knew she was pretty damned cool, but come on.

Under the blinding light of Missouri's smile, Bela tried to wince away in Dean's direction, uncomfortable and unnerved, but Missouri moved before she had a chance, and then Bela was being hugged too.

"You've finally done something right, boy!" Missouri announced to Dean over Bela's shoulder. "I thought for sure you'da scared her off by now and messed everything up."

When she pulled away, her eyes were damp and shining with something… was that _relief_? Tutting her confusion, Bela said, "I'm sorry, have we met?"

But Missouri shook her head, still smiling, and took Bela by the hand. "Not once, girl. Name's Missouri Moseley. You look like you've had a hell of a journey. Bathroom's just down the hall if you wanna freshen up."

A hell of a journey? Unnerved, Bela resisted the urge to chuckle hysterically, and shot a quick glance at Dean. He was still watching Missouri, face frozen as he analyzed the oddness of the moment just passed. Shook himself.

"This is Bela Talbot, Missouri. She's a…"

And he trailed off, fighting over words. Bela froze herself, watching Dean puzzle through connotations, and wondered exactly what he'd say. Had to know, really. If he said friend, would she be hurt or relieved? If he said sort of enemy, what did that mean? Oh God, acquaintance was the worst and—

Missouri took her hand again and squeezed. "Poor girl. I can tell you right now that no matter what comes out of his mouth, he feels the exact same way you do." And, "Shame on you, Dean, leaving her hanging! You should hear what's going on inside of that head of hers. Acquaintance this, friend that. Honestly, shame on you!"

And Bela, who had been pondering the ramifications of _the exact same way you do_, snapped her head up, and glared at Dean as the pieces fell together all at once. He was not looking at her, but he was blushing. A rueful smile replaced the analytical frown of moments before. Bela reached over and thumped him on the arm.

"You can read minds? Isn't that just charming," Bela said to Missouri. And to Dean, "I'm sure you _meant_ to tell me, yeah?"

He offered up a sheepish smile, and cringed when Missouri said, "If you want to know something about her, no need to be so underhanded about it!"

And she pointed again to the bathroom, gesturing in a way that couldn't be mistaken as anything other than kind. Not to mention, Missouri was glaring at Dean, which really? Only made Bela feel better. Chin held high, she left the two of them in the entrance way.

The bathroom mirror revealed much more to be aghast at than the rearview mirror in the Impala had. It only took a minute or two of trying to admit that her appearance was beyond help. A splash of cold water on her face revived her a little and helped to dull the ache behind her eyes, but a stabbing realization deep inside made Bela think that the morning's tears might have opened the floodgate for a whole lot more.

"Damn you, Dean Winchester," she muttered.

Get yourself together, girl.

Returning to the entrance way proved that Missouri and Dean had moved on; she found them sitting amiably in the living room, Missouri drinking what looked like iced tea and Dean a beer. Dean, who was sitting straight-backed on the couch, saw her and moved over, eyes flickering to the spot beside him before resolutely moving away. Trying not to think under Missouri's watchful gaze, Bela sat down beside him and crossed her legs; Dean leaned into the cushions and threw an arm so casually that it was anything but over the back of the couch.

"We were just catching up," Dean informed her. Threw back a swig of beer and added, "Missouri here helped Sammy and I get rid of a nasty poltergeist couple years back."

Bela smiled, all teeth. "A nasty poltergeist? Is there any other kind?"

Dean conceded her point with a nod, and Missouri said, "Do you want a beer, honey? You still look plum tuckered out."

Oh God, thought Bela, one more beer in the presence of Dean Winchester and—

Missouri winked. "I've got some vodka lying around here somewhere."

Bela coloured, embarrassed both by Missouri's skills and Dean's fingers, which were toying aimlessly with the back of her neck.

"I'm actually fine right now, thank you," she answered, trying to dislodge Dean's hand as subtly as possible. He smirked around the mouth of the beer bottle, and shifted closer, dropping one finger down the back of her shirt. Bela barely resisted the urge to elbow him in the stomach. "Dean and I had coffee not very long ago, thanks."

Missouri nodded, smile still friendly, and leaned back into her chair. Her gaze, too sharp, too alert, darted between Bela and Dean, and Bela found herself growing unnecessarily… well, not uneasy, but definitely suspicious. Something was up with this one, most definitely, and Bela instantly thought that it wouldn't hurt to be on her guard.

The look on Missouri's face when she had first spotted her surpassed meeting the… date, or whatever of a young man she barely knew—and the fact that she barely knew him was steadily becoming obvious, what with Dean so stiff at her side—and went into an odd place that made Bela unsure. Narrowing her eyes as subtly as possible, she tried to block off her mind, employing the same trick she used on her talking board.

_Don't let them in, Bela. They'll kill you as soon as help you, and you mustn't give them a thing._ Her grandmother's advice.

Only Missouri did not seem dangerous, not at all. She was currently discussing fortune telling with Dean, and their laughter was easy enough. Dean was uncomfortable, but not exactly on guard—although she had seen his eyes narrow, all hunter, when Missouri had spotted her too.

And then Missouri cut them all to the chase and said, "Do you want to talk about why you're really here, Dean?"

Dean jerked beside her, and took an unreasonably large swallow of his drink. Fingers clenched in shock on Bela's neck and he sounded off when he said, "Can't stop by for a visit now, Missouri? Not very hospitable!"

Missouri chuckled, and leaned forward to smack Dean on the knee. "Course you can, honey. And I know you came out here to say goodbye. Just talking about the other reasons, that's all. I'm not _mad_. Just thought we should get it out of the way so we can move onto more pleasant things later."

And Bela knew what it was about, how could she not? Fortune telling and mind reading and well… the woman was clearly psychic. Didn't think she could be around for it, not so soon after this morning, not with Dean right here; couldn't actually _hear_ what she herself had told Sam, not with Dean beside her, not _I'm sorry, honey, but there's nothing_. Strangely, she didn't feel exactly privy to it either and—

"Sit down, Bela," Dean said, when she made a move to stand. "It's okay."

Bela looked down at him, meeting and holding his gaze. He looked resigned to whatever Missouri had to say, but stubbornly steadfast in his desire not to have her leave. She figured that perhaps he had spent more _time_ with her than Missouri, and therefore it made sense to have her sticking around, but all she could think of was crying in the car, and Missouri saying things like _exactly the same way_, and it was damned hard to block off her mind when it was on fire.

Sighing, she decided to forfeit the silent battle she was having with Dean. Seating herself again, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to hide her concern and her fear… for him and for herself, despicable thing that she was. A warm hand folded over hers, silver band on his finger a cold contrast to his skin. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and saw the smile he attempted to hide.

When she looked up again, Missouri was watching them—watching _her_--with quiet calculation, but the older woman was quick to drop her gaze under Bela's scrutiny. Another sideways glance assured Bela that Dean had seen it too, no matter how distracted he was by what he was about to ask.

Slowly, he began, "I'm not trying to get out of my deal. No way in hell am I trying that." A pause, during which he toyed with her fingernail and made eye contact with no one. "I just thought that while I was here, with you being psychic—honestly, Missouri, it's not the only reason I came."

She smiled, blindly, kindly, and… sadly? "Wouldn't blame you if it was, dear. You're up against some pretty powerful things, aren't you?" And then, so softly that Bela nearly missed it, "I haven't seen anything in regards to you, Dean. You know I'd tell you if I had."

Crappy liar! Bloody terrible! Bela wanted to jump up and point out the evasive eye shift with glee; to pound Dean, who was wilting with poorly hidden disappointment beside her, on the back of the head and shout, "She knows something, you bloody fool!" Hope flooded her so quickly and so abruptly that she choked holding back a squeak; didn't see why Dean couldn't see it. Stupid blind Dean Winchester, always so easily led, always so easily manipulated—

Only it stood to reason that Missouri would have told Dean something _good_, now didn't it? And evasive eye contact was rarely good. Without hope, things felt a lot like devastation, and the warring emotions made her head hurt; made her dizzy. She fell back against the cushion, and then Dean was there, arm around her like _she_ was the one to be disappointed by the news, not him at all. She sagged into him, and noticed that Missouri was still watching, damn her. Probably reading her mind, probably—

"Don't be thinking I'm cutting my visit short now, Missouri!" Dean was saying, on the most carefree terrible laugh Bela had ever heard. "I expect at least one good meal outta you."

An eyebrow arched. "Do you now? And not even a ma'am in there. What would your father say?" She stood up and brushed at her pants. "Want to grab Bela's suitcase? I'll show you to your rooms. Give you a chance to get settled, to process--"

But Dean was interrupting. "Room_s_? Like in the plural?"

Missouri stopped in the doorway, rounding on him. "I won't have any sinning in my house, boy."

Spluttering so much that Bela had to giggle. "But… but I'm going to Hell anyway! You just said so!"

Smiling past the pit in her stomach, Bela reached forward to give Dean's butt a solid pinch. "Meet you in the car around midnight?" she suggested on a wink. And then, "Try not to bump my suitcase up the stairs, please."

* * *

Missouri, in some gesture of female solidarity, gave Bela the actual spare bedroom; gave Dean what looked like a closet converted to hold a bed. Neither one of them complained, both too distracted to say anything either way. The comforter on her bed was soft and clean, and Bela's expectations must have been dropping, but this was… _nice_. Reminded her of… of something. Of her grandmother's perhaps, when Bela was still very young; when her grandmother had only just begun to try her hand at selling.

Wishing she could luxuriate on her bed all day, Bela took off her shoes and wiggled her nylon covered toes. Then, she crept close to her bedroom door, pressed her ear to the wood, and listened. She could hear Missouri and Dean talking briefly outside of the other bedroom, then the door of that one was closing, and footsteps were signaling Missouri's retreat. She waited a scant second more before dashing to her suitcase to grope around for her gun. It wasn't necessary at the moment—Bela meant to do some investigating first—but the feel of it slowed her heartbeat and calmed her down enough to think straight.

So Missouri. Dean's lying friend. Distrust flooded through Bela so quickly that she set her jaw against it; pushed the gun far underneath her clothes once more and stood up. No need to be directly confrontational—Bela had been wrong before, and most likely would be again. All she wanted was a little chat, without Dean.

Opening the door slowly to avoid detection, Bela crept out into the hallway, sliding silently in her nylons. Dean's door was closed and a momentary hover outside revealed nothing but silence. Taking a moment, she thought, a moment in private—and her heart wrenched.

But that was playing into her plan, and so she squelched any momentary… softening.

Bela made her way down the stairs noiselessly, wanting the advantage on Missouri, and came across her seated at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of something that smelled like chamomile tea. There was another cup waiting in front of the seat opposite her; Bela checked at the tableau she seemed to have walked into, caught off guard and more than a little thrown.

Missouri waited patiently for Bela to come back into herself; when Bela smiled her best cat-like grin, and fought for a reply, the older woman merely gestured at the seat.

"Sit down and have some tea, dear," she invited, leaning back in her seat. "You are just about as transparent as he is. All that relief, all that fear… you can't hide anything from me, girl."

Bela checked again but seated herself, fighting for decorum and… and…

"Don't flatter yourself," was what she said. "Dean might have been so overcome by disappointment that he didn't notice anything wrong, but you had better believe I did."

Missouri shrugged. "Dean did too, of course he did. And that's why we can't talk for long, you and I. Oh, don't look so petulant. I imagine we'll get some time later. Boy's wanting to go see the house he was born in, the place his mama died, and we'll talk then."

Wait until mind-reading Missouri got her alone? No thank you.

"Perhaps," Bela dawdled. "Or perhaps you could just give me a little _hint_ right now. You were much too happy to see me, Missouri. I'm not exactly used to that reaction, and I want to know why."

That made Missouri laugh, and she clapped a hand over Bela's. "Oh yes, Miss Bela Talbot. Better believe I've heard of you! It's why I was so surprised and… yes, _pleased_ to see you. Thought Dean Winchester would take one look at you and run the other way!" Another laugh, followed by a speculative once over. "But you are rather pretty, and that one's never been blind to the fairer sex. Gave his daddy all sorts of trouble."

"Yes, I'm sure he did." Bela sipped at her tea to kill the overly pleasant _mmm_ that was forming on her lips, and then leaned back in her chair again, eyebrow arched. "Since our chat is going to be so short, you can start by telling me how Dean not running in the other direction matters." Cocked her head, and smiled again.

"Well, no need to get bossy." And then Missouri sighed and hunched forward, voice lowered. "Between you and me, you know. I don't want to raise Dean's hopes prematurely. I really saw _nothing_."

Bela had never been slow. "But you saw… you saw _me_." And her hopes were rising again, lurching sickeningly about her stomach.

A pause, a cautious glance over her shoulder, and then, "Well… I saw _Sam_. I saw nothing concrete, but you were there. Looked like a ritual. You know this could be years down the line, sweetie. Might have nothing to do with anything. I just saw you and--"

"Makes no sense down the line." Bela grimaced as hope fluttered violently. "I'd honestly rather die before joining forces with Sam. We don't really like each other. He'd only get in my way."

Another sip of tea. "And you in his, I imagine. But that's it, honey. All of it."

"And you want to discuss the connotations of it later?" Bela inquired, staring over the rim of her cup at Missouri. She believed her, although she could not quite say why. Knew in the pit of her gut that that really was _it_, details aside.

Missouri blanched a little, but Bela could see it now for fright, not deception. Doubt, maybe. "Not the connotations, exactly. Just more in detail about the… about the ritual. But not now. Not when Dean could pop down the stairs at any time."

"If it's nothing, it'll give him false hope," Bela pondered, rising. "And if it's something, Dean will stop it."

Missouri shrugged. "He means to go to Hell for this, Bela. Can't think of one thing that'll make him fight for it."

Stupid stubborn fatalistic Dean.

"Doesn't matter if he fights for it," Bela scoffed, stubbing her toe into the floor. "That's what he's got Sam for."

And then Missouri's eyebrow was arching. "And you, apparently."

* * *

Dean's door was still closed when Bela went back upstairs. It was an odd whim, a result of the fluttering in her stomach that Missouri's vision had caused, but she hesitated outside of it and rapped her knuckles gently against the wood. She heard a grunt from inside and braced herself for any eventuality—after all, Dean had drug them half way across the country to get confirmation out of Missouri, and Bela could only imagine how _disappointed_ he must have been to have his worst fears confirmed. Or half confirmed, she reminded herself.

In the end, Dean's reaction to the whole thing was so anticlimactic that Bela almost hopped right back out of his room.

He was sitting on the bed—the cot, actually—with his back against the wall, box of tapes from the car at his side and pen in his hand. Dry eyed, and completely calm.

"What are you doing?" she asked, not bothering to hide her surprise.

"Crying," Dean answered, dead-pan. "Sobbing my fucking eyes out, waiting for a hot young thing to comfort me with equally hot sex. Help me repress my pain, Bela. I can't get through this moment alone." And he scoffed.

Bela narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Lovely, Dean."

A shrug. "I'm rewriting my tapes. Titles are getting smudged. Been meaning to do it for a long time and God knows Sam won't get off his ass and do it once I'm gone. Probably toss the whole lot of them for some of that wussy crap he loves so much."

It was annoying to see Dean's genuine distress over the possible ill-fate of his tapes when he was being so cavalier about his own. Huffing, she joined him on the bed, pushing the box out of her way in spite of his irritated gasp. The cot jolted at their weight, the mattress lurched, and then the whole thing settled.

"If I get holed up inside some stupid cot fold just because of your--"

"Cut the crap," she snapped. "You were a little disappointed. Just admit it."

He glowered at her, before lifting the pen and going back to his list. "Pretty fucking hard to be disappointed in the answer you knew you were going to get. I didn't come see Missouri because of that anyway."

"Right. And that is exactly why you are holed up in here all by yourself pouting."

The pen stilled, and his glower gave way to a full-out glare. "I am _not_ pouting. I am--"

"Calmly preparing for your own death, I get it." And the anger was rising so fast in Bela that even she felt a little blindsided. Rituals and Sam Winchester and Dean and his bloody fucking tapes and—"Do you even care, Dean? Like… at all?"

"Bela—"

The anger was choking her, joined now by indignation. "No! I mean it! Because Sam is out there busting his ass and Missouri's already missing you, and I… _I_…"

"If you want me to say that I _regret_ saving my brother," began Dean, voice deadly calm, "then you're gonna be waiting one helluva long time. There's not one fucking thing I'd redo about that day."

Bela went to punch the mattress of the cot, missed, and thumped Dean on the thigh. "I don't want you to say you regret it! Regretting it and wanting to live are two entirely different things, Dean."

But he wasn't hearing it. "Do you know what, Bela? I thank God every single goddamned day that I only got a year. I couldn't put up with this shit--"

"Put up with?" she mimicked, poking his leg again. "Now you are only putting up with us all? Why, of all the high-handed--"

"No!" He put the pen down, angled as much as he could, and glared at her dead on. "Don't you be putting words in my mouth. I thought it would be nice to see what Missouri knew. There, you happy now, you nosey bi--"

"Don't you dare call me that, you--"

"Just shut up, Bela. Like seriously. You're more worked up about this than I am." Which was so painfully obvious that Bela winced. "I accepted a long fucking time ago that there's _nothing_. I'm not going to waste a single second of--"

The fight went out of her so abruptly that she slumped forward. Thought of rituals and Sam and maybes; grabbed his hand and thought about it warm in hers. The mother of all stress headaches was forming behind her eyes, and she blinked in a failed attempt to clear it. If Missouri was right—oh, but then that was grasping at straws, and all she had that was real was Dean, here with her right now.

She didn't want to lose Dean, she thought on a rush of painful breath.

"I don't want to fight," she murmured, gentling her tone.

He reeled back at her mercurial mood, but nodded. "Me neither. Right." And then, "Listen… whatever, okay? It's not how I thought everything would go when I was younger. That good enough for you?"

She shrugged and leaned back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip with Dean. The cot was small enough for it to be absurdly uncomfortable, but Bela was too mentally drained to even contemplate moving. The thought of losing him—

Well, Sam had been right. Bela had absolutely nothing, did she? Just a cat and an empty flat with no visitors. Dean Winchester, damn her luck, was the first person to _really_ take an interest in anything in so long, and the reality of returning to her isolated existence, with nothing but buyers for company, brought her up short.

"Do you ever wished you smoked?" she asked. "Seems like a bloody good moment to light up."

Dean laughed. "Wouldn't want to shorten my lifespan, sweetheart."

"Not funny." An elbow to the ribs for good measure.

Silence then. Bela stared at their feet through half-opened eyes, his so much further down the mattress than hers. The cot would be too small for him laid out, she thought idly.

Abruptly, he asked, "What colour panties are you wearing?"

Bela startled at the question and his teasing tone; then she giggled, jabbing him in the ribs again. "Beg your pardon? I don't see how my knickers—"

"Oh, come _on_!" He moved so fast that she was flat out and he was hovering over her before she knew quite what was what. She jerked away from his questing fingers, snorting when the cot bounced in protestation, but Dean was persistent, and his hands chased her wiggling hips. "I just want _one_ look. Just one. That's all. One little peek for the dying man! What are you hiding? Are they pink? Fuck, let them be pink!"

She laughed and shot her hand up, connecting her palm with his face, and tried to shove him away from her. His fingers caught her belly and tickled so suddenly that she gasped, and tried to knee him wherever she could hit. Managed to knee him in the stomach, but he was still trying to hold her down, laughing too.

"They're not pink," she informed him, as prissily as she could with his arm pressing on her lungs. "Get _off_ me, you giant perv!"

Rubbed himself playfully against her leg and cackled manically, "Oh, I'll get off alright" but let her shove him over. She bit at her palm to suppress her laughter, hopping off the cot and skirting away from him. Glanced back at the doorway to see him watching her retreat, cheeks flushed and hair mussed.

"You should go visit with Missouri!" she accused, pointing. "Not be accosting me!"

He snorted. "Accosted? Please. That would have been so much more fun." And he wiggled his eyebrows and shot her _that_ smile.

She gave him the finger for good measure and danced back out into the hallway. Waited the required beat, and stuck her head back into the room. Dean was sitting up, apparently searching for an errant… something. Possibly his pen. Was still smirking to himself. He looked up when she popped her head in. She toyed with the frame of the door with her fingers and grinned wide.

"Not wearing any knickers, Dean," she informed him. "Do think about that for a while, yeah?"

And she fled on the growl that was his response, bounced to her room, and closed the door properly behind her.

After that, she decided a nap would be just the thing. Didn't think Missouri or Dean would hold it against her; she was still tuckered out from that morning's cry, and her whirling thoughts did nothing to make her feel better now. Taking off her suit made her nearly moan with pleasure; she was too lazy to find pajamas and settled on her housecoat.

Her bed was so much better than Dean's and, warmly cocooned in blankets, Bela was out in no time.

* * *

She awoke to fingers in her hair, massaging slowly at her temples, and opened her eyes to see Dean angled over her, a small smile softening the hard contours of his face. Blinked up at him and made a sleepy noise in the back of her throat, stretching and angling for more of that elusive touch.

"Did you visit with Missouri at all?" she whispered, blinking again to clear away sleep.

Still smiling that gentle smile, Dean moved to lay fully beside her, but stayed propped up on one elbow, fingers from his other hand teasing down her cheek to settle abruptly upon her shoulder. He blinked a few times as well, squinting at her, and then leaned down minutely.

"Visited with her for hours. Thought I'd come see if you were still alive." His thumb darted out to trace her collarbone, and she sighed sleepily. "I'm gonna go for a drive. Came to say goodbye so you wouldn't wake up and think I left you here. I'll be back in an hour or so."

But he didn't move, or at least didn't move anything other than his hand. Bela went perfectly still, afraid of the easy look on his face; afraid of startling him out of his momentary spurt of closeness like she had the other day. Afraid of him moving, away from her… away period. Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled back; shifted closer herself, but only a little.

Then, just when his careful ministrations were pushing her back towards sleep, he said, "Thanks."

She opened her eyes and found him peering at her, curious and somewhat shamefaced. Frowning, she said, "For what?"

He shrugged. "Not wanting me to die. That's… nice. And for coming with me, I guess."

A lump in her throat rendered speech impossible. She choked around it for a moment, watching green eyes look anywhere but into hers, and then managed a garbled, "Was I a big enough pain in the ass for you?"

He chuckled, the movement bouncing his side into hers. Moved the hand off her shoulder and back to her cheek. "Definitely."

She watched him watch her mouth; counted the seconds. He was close enough that she could feel his breath tickling at her lips; close enough that she imagined she could hear his heartbeat. Carefully, she stretched out her fingers and pressed her palm down over his heart, smiling when it beat proud and firm under her hand. Felt him sigh, that close, and then his mouth was right over hers.

"I'm going to kiss you," he warned. "Just once more, and then we've gotta be done with this. Timing is way too fucked up."

"Was it my lack of knickers that brought you to the edge?" she snickered.

But his lips on hers were the answer, and then he was kissing her, slowly and leisurely, and like they had all the time in the world. She let him trace and outline her mouth, delighting in the feel of stubble under her palms, and then parted her lips on a sigh, wanting more.

Dean was ever one to oblige when it suited him; she felt his acquiescence all through his body, and then he was deepening the kiss, tongue tangling with hers, breath combined, and so _slow_ and beautiful. Her heart hammered hard underneath her ribs when his fingers traced down her arm to cup her breast through her housecoat; let the desire to point out that that wasn't really just a kiss die a slow and brutal death. Instead arched enough that he could touch her fully; imagined his hand under her housecoat, skin on skin, and sighed breathy need into his mouth, even as she was afraid of him pulling back, of him spouting all of that crap about dying and honour and pains in the asses and—

But Dean wasn't pulling back. Dean was moving forward, lips leaving hers to trace a very pointed trail across her cheek, to her ear, and then down her neck, nipping and warm and… and… his hand was moving too, caressing and then slipping easy as you please past the ties of her housecoat, fingers tickling at the skin on her belly before sliding up and up and up—

His lips were on hers again then, swallowing her own gasp of acceptance, and—

"Going to join me for supper tonight, Bela?"

The words were so out of place with everything that was going on that Bela could not form a response—or even really process the question at all—immediately. Truthfully, before knuckles rapped against her door, she half thought the question came from Dean.

But not Dean. Definitely Missouri. Dean was chuckling out his frustration, head smashed into the pillow, and hand still just under her breast. As for Bela, she felt nearly cross-eyed with it and—

"Goddamn it!" Dean grunted near her ear. "Answer her before she comes in."

Smacking her palm against her face, Bela groaned and said, "I'll be right down! I'm sorry to have slept so long!"

Missouri laughed; replied, "It's been a tiring time for all of us" and then Bela heard her retreating footsteps.

She and Dean lay frozen for a moment; then, with a fleeting farewell kiss, Dean hoisted himself up off the bed, blushing and looking uncomfortable.

"Right," he said. Shifted his weight. "I'll be back. In an hour or two at most. Yeah…"

And then he was gone, fleeing more or less, and the bedroom door was closed behind him. She was alone with her thoughts again, alone period, and... just _ugh_. Contemplatively, she pressed her fingertips to her lips and--

Bela rolled her eyes at herself and moved her hand to her heart, feeling its riotous rhythm beneath her palm. So Dean was gone—or would be soon—and Missouri was waiting downstairs for… the talk. To try to hammer out with Bela what it all meant. Bela choked on held breath; didn't think she could ever go down there to realize that it meant _nothing_. The tiny glimmer of hope she felt was an extreme annoyance—how could she be expected to think clearly when the stakes were so high and she… kind of cared a little bit?

Giggling a touch hysterically, Bela stood and straightened her clothes. Her cell phone was in her purse and she retrieved it before moving to sit on the bed. She didn't have Sam Winchester's number, but found it on her list of missed calls. Sighing, she selected it and waited for the phone to connect.

It rang once, twice, three times; Bela was poised and waiting to hear Sam's grunt of greeting, but what she heard instead was, "Hi, you've reached Sam Winchester. Sorry to have missed your call. Leave a message and I'll get right back to you"—which was kind of a boring message, and ugh, a _message_?

Nevertheless, after the beep, Bela said, "Hey, Sam, it's your favourite girl in the whole wide world. We're here at Missouri's—Dean is fine, by the way—and she mentioned some sort of ritual to me. Some kind of vision or something, involving the two of us. Funny, eh? Anyway, I don't know where you are or what you're doing or how much time you want to focus on a vague vision that could happen at any time, but… thought I'd let you know. And... umm... listen. If you need _money_... honestly, do try to get a bank loan first, because... oh, bloody hell, Sam, I will charge you and your brother _so_ much interest, but if... you... you know, _need_ it..." A laugh, because... she was so dumb.

Then, "Dean is out right now and I'm going to go talk about it with Missouri, but I'll call you back at some point. Don't call me; Dean doesn't know. Give Ruby a kiss for me! Ta!"

And she hung up, bracing herself for a bit of detective work that she really _really_ didn't want to do. Braced herself to find out answers that were quite possibly going to be unpleasant.


End file.
